El Requeson, Episode One- Worlds Collide

 

“Worlds Collide”

Chapter 1

Nicky McCrain’s Home, Copper Bay, Republic of Sǫ̀mbak’è

The Upstairs Bedroom

The room smelled like cheap liquor, detergent, and something warmer underneath it.

Nicky lay back against the headboard, shirt half-open, looking entirely too satisfied with himself.

Beside him, the woman- still catching her breath- let out a quiet laugh.

“Okay,” she said, shaking her head, “I was not expecting that.”

Nicky smirked.

“Yeah, well.”

He reached for his drink on the nightstand, took a slow sip like he had just completed something important.

“I’ve picked up a few things.”

He didn’t mention that those “few things” came from Seeker, the AI chatbox he’d been half-embarrassed to consult at two in the morning.

Didn’t matter.

It worked.

That’s what counted.

The woman rolled onto her side, propping her head up with her hand, still smiling at him like he’d just passed some kind of test.

“You’re full of surprises.”

“Yeah,” Nicky said. “That’s what I keep hearing.”

He handed her a drink. She took it without hesitation.

No questions.

No expectations.

That part Nicky appreciated.

He reached over, grabbed his laptop, flipped it open, and set it between them.

“You watch anything?” he asked.

“Depends.”

Nicky clicked a few keys, navigating quickly.

“Got everything on here.”

The screen loaded a streaming site- menus, thumbnails, categories that definitely didn’t belong to anything licensed.

The woman glanced at it.

“This legal?”

Nicky didn’t even blink.

“Yeah.”

A beat.

“Totally.”

She looked at him.

Then at the screen.

Then shrugged.

“Okay.”

Didn’t matter to her.

Nicky leaned back again, satisfied.

“You’re lucky,” he said. “Back in the day, you wanted to watch something like The Sopranos, you had to work for it.”

She glanced over.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Cable descrambler. Guy down the street. Had to bribe him with a case of beer just to get it running.”

“Seriously?”

“I’m serious,” Nicky said. “Thing barely worked half the time. You’d get sound, no picture. Picture, no sound. Sometimes just… static.”

He took another sip.

“Now? Click a button. Whole world’s right there.”

The show started playing.

Neither of them really watched it.

They leaned back, shoulders touching, the glow of the screen filling the room.

A few minutes passed.

Then-

She shifted closer.

Nicky didn’t resist.

Didn’t hesitate.

The laptop slid slightly as they moved-

Her arm knocked the nightstand-

…and-

crack.

Both of them froze.

A vase hit the floor.

Shattered.

Silence.

The woman blinked, looking down.

“…Oh.”

Nicky didn’t move at first.

Just stared at it.

Then-

A quiet, tight exhale.

“…Yeah.”

The mood didn’t just dip.

It vanished.

The woman sat up slightly.

“Sorry-”

“It’s fine,” Nicky said quickly.

Too quickly.

He swung his legs off the bed, crouched down, staring at the broken pieces.

He didn’t touch them.

Didn’t need to.

He knew exactly what it was.

Lucy’s.

Of course it was.

The woman watched him.

“You sure?”

Nicky nodded once.

Still looking at the floor.

“Yeah.”

A beat.

Then, more quietly-

“…It’s fine.”

…but it wasn’t.

…and for the first time that night-

Nicky didn’t look in control of anything.

Downstairs

The lighting was perfect.

Lucy had made sure of that. For her Lucy’s Diamonds livestream, she had to.

Ring light angled just right. Background clean. Product centered in frame. Everything curated, controlled, intentional.

Everything except the house.

“…and what I really like about this one,” Lucy said, holding up the mascara wand just enough to catch the light, “is that it actually separates without clumping. You don’t get that heavy, stuck-together look-”

A faint sound from upstairs.

Movement.

A laugh.

Lucy didn’t pause.

She adjusted slightly, turning her face toward the camera.

“It’s subtle, but it makes a difference. Especially if you’re going for something more natural-”

Another sound.

More obvious this time.

She blinked once.

Kept going.

“I’ve tried a lot of these, and most of them promise length but just give you thickness. This one actually-”

A thud.

Lucy’s hand tightened slightly around the tube.

Not enough for the camera to notice.

Enough for her to feel it.

She smiled anyway.

“-actually delivers on both.”

Comments scrolled.

Hearts.

Questions.

Someone asked about pricing.

Lucy leaned forward just slightly, slipping back into the rhythm.

“It’s mid-range,” she said. “You’re not paying luxury prices, but it’s definitely a step up from drugstore-”

A small shape entered frame.

Lucy glanced down.

“…Hi.”

Mason.

Two years old. No concept of timing, tone, or boundaries.

He crawled into her lap like the livestream belonged to him.

Which, at this point, it might as well.

The chat reacted instantly.

Lucy forced a softer smile.

“This is Mason,” she said, adjusting him so he wasn’t blocking the product. “He’s decided he’s part of the review now.”

Mason grabbed at the mascara.

“No- no, not that,” Lucy said gently, pulling it back.

He laughed.

Did it again.

Lucy exhaled quietly through her nose.

Upstairs-

Another sound.

More movement.

She didn’t look up.

Didn’t react.

Just adjusted Mason again.

“Okay,” she said to the camera, still composed, “so as I was saying-”

Mason twisted in her lap.

Reached toward the keyboard.

Lucy caught his hand.

“No.”

He looked at her.

Smiled.

Waited.

Then immediately reached again.

“No,” she repeated, firmer this time.

Mason laughed.

Because to him-

This was a game.

Upstairs-

A sharper noise.

Lucy’s jaw tightened.

Still smiling.

Still composed.

Still performing.

“You also don’t get that flaking after a few hours,” she continued, voice even. “Which is a big deal if you’re wearing it all day-”

Mason slipped free.

Too fast.

Too practiced.

His hand came down on the keyboard-

Lucy reached-

Too late.

The screen went black.

Silence.

The ring light hummed.

Lucy stared at the dead screen for a second.

Just one.

Then she leaned back slightly, eyes closing.

“…Okay.”

Mason clapped.

Delighted with himself.

Lucy didn’t react to him right away.

She just sat there.

Breathing.

Letting the smile fall off her face.

Upstairs-

crack.

Something broke.

Not subtle.

Not ignorable.

Lucy’s eyes opened.

That was new.

That wasn’t part of the usual noise.

She looked up.

Not confused.

Not surprised.

Just… done.

Mason tugged at her sleeve.

“Ma.”

Lucy stood.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Like if she moved too fast, something would spill over.

She picked Mason up, setting him on her hip.

For a second, she just stood there.

Listening.

Thinking.

Then-

A quiet exhale.

“…Okay.”

Not angry.

Not yelling.

Not yet.

…but the decision had been made.

…and whatever understanding she had been holding onto-

It didn’t come upstairs with her.

Upstairs Bedroom

The footsteps came fast.

Not loud.

Not stomping.

…but direct.

Nicky heard them.

His head snapped toward the door.

“…Sh***.”

He moved immediately.

“You- get up.”

The woman blinked.

“What?”

“Closet. Now.”

She hesitated just long enough to be a problem.

“Nicky-”

“Now.”

Something in his tone landed.

She grabbed what she could and slipped off the bed, moving quickly- bare feet on the floor, heart suddenly racing for a different reason.

The closet door shut just as-

The bedroom door opened.

Lucy stood in the doorway.

Still.

Silent.

The room held its breath.

Nicky didn’t say anything at first.

Neither did she.

Lucy stepped inside.

Slowly.

Her eyes moved- not wildly, not searching- just… taking inventory.

The bed.

The laptop.

The glasses.

The floor.

The vase.

Broken.

She inhaled.

…and that was enough.

Nicky tried.

“…It just- fell,” he said, gesturing vaguely. “I knocked it over when I-”

He stopped.

Because even he could hear it.

Lucy didn’t look at him.

Not yet.

“…Did it,” she said quietly, “fall on its own?”

Nicky swallowed.

“No, I-”

Lucy turned her head slightly.

Not fully.

Just enough.

“Is she in the closet?”

That landed clean.

No anger.

No raised voice.

Just certainty.

Nicky shook his head immediately.

“No.”

Too fast.

“No, there’s nobody-”

Lucy let out a small breath.

“…Nicky.”

Now she looked at him.

“I’m not nineteen, Nicholas. I know your bimbo is in there.”

Silence.

A second.

Two.

Then-

The closet door opened.

The woman stepped out. Naked.

Unbothered.

Unapologetic.

She didn’t even look at Nicky.

Her focus locked on Lucy.

“Don’t call me a bimbo.”

Lucy turned to face her fully now.

Measured.

Calm.

The woman stepped closer.

“You don’t know me.”

Lucy didn’t step back.

“I know enough.”

The woman closed the distance.

Not quite aggressive.

…but close.

Too close.

Nicky hesitated-

Just for a second.

A reflex from a younger version of himself flickered-

Then died immediately.

“Nope,” he muttered, stepping between them.

“Not happening.”

He held a hand out to each of them, keeping space.

“That’s enough. Both of you.”

The woman scoffed.

“Seriously?”

“Yeah,” Nicky said. “Seriously.”

He turned slightly, grabbing her clothes from the bed, shoving them into her hands.

“Get dressed.”

She didn’t move.

“Nicky-”

“Get dressed,” he repeated, firmer.

A beat.

Then she took them.

Not happy.

Not arguing either.

She dressed quickly, still glaring past him at Lucy.

Lucy didn’t react.

Didn’t engage.

Didn’t need to.

When the woman was done, she grabbed her things.

Looked at Nicky once.

Then at Lucy.

Then-

Left.

The door shut behind her.

Silence filled the room again.

Heavier this time.

Nicky stood there for a second.

Then sat down on the edge of the bed.

Ran a hand over his face.

“…I’ll fix it,” he said, voice lower now. “The vase. I’ll-”

His voice caught.

He pushed through it.

“I’ll pay for it. I’ll replace it.”

Lucy looked at the broken pieces on the floor.

Then back at him.

…and for the first time-

There was something final in her expression.

“That’s not the problem.”

Nicky looked up.

She met his eyes.

Steady.

Clear.

“The thing that’s broken,” she said, “is not something you can pay for.”

That landed harder than anything else had.

Nicky’s shoulders dropped.

The fight drained out of him.

…and just like that-

There was nothing left to argue.

The door had barely settled after the woman left.

Nicky stayed where he was, sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at nothing for a second too long.

Then it hit him.

Hard.

“Lucy-”

He stood up too quickly.

“I- look, I screwed up, okay?”

The words came fast now. Familiar. Practiced.

“I know I did. I shouldn’t have- I don’t even know what I was thinking, I just-”

He ran a hand through his hair, pacing once.

“I got carried away. That’s on me. That’s- yeah, that’s my fault.”

Lucy didn’t move.

Didn’t interrupt.

“I’ll fix it,” Nicky went on. “I will. I’ll- whatever it takes, I’ll fix it. I’ll be better. I’ll-”

He stopped pacing.

Looked at her.

“I’ll take this seriously,” he said. “You. The kids. All of it. I just- I gotta start acting like it matters, and I will. I swear I will.”

A beat.

His voice softened.

“I mean it this time.”

Lucy exhaled.

Not sharply.

Just… tired.

She looked at him.

…and for a moment, there was something almost gentle in her expression.

Almost.

Then-

“This is the part,” she said quietly, “where I ask you why I should believe you.”

Nicky froze.

Lucy took a step closer.

“…and then you say,” she continued, her tone steady, “that it’ll be different this time.”

Nicky opened his mouth-

Nothing came out.

Lucy held his gaze.

“What makes this time,” she asked, “any different from the other fifty-five times you said it would be?”

The number landed.

Not exaggerated.

Not symbolic.

Specific.

Nicky’s face tightened.

He didn’t argue it.

Couldn’t.

His eyes started to water.

“…I don’t know,” he said, barely above a whisper.

Lucy nodded once.

That was the answer.

Or the closest thing to one.

Her own eyes filled, but she didn’t look away.

No anger left.

No fight.

Just… recognition.

“We’re done,” she said.

Simple.

Final.

Nicky’s shoulders dropped like something inside him had finally given way.

He sat back down, hard.

“…Yeah.”

Not agreement.

Not acceptance.

Just… understanding.

Lucy turned toward the door.

Stopped.

Not to reconsider.

Just to finish.

“I’ll be downstairs,” she said. “On the futon.”

Nicky didn’t look up.

“…and don’t come down.”

A beat.

Then she opened the door.

…and left.

The room stayed quiet after she was gone.

Nicky sat there, elbows on his knees, staring at the broken vase on the floor.

His eyes blurred.

He wiped at them once, roughly.

Didn’t bother pretending.

Because there was no one left to convince.

…and nothing left to say.

Downstairs

The house was quieter downstairs.

Not peaceful.

Just… removed.

Lucy sat on the edge of the futon, phone in her hands, staring at the screen longer than she needed to.

Then she tapped.

It rang once.

Twice.

Three-

“Lucy?”

Sarah’s voice. Awake. No hesitation.

Lucy exhaled.

“Hey.”

“What happened?”

No small talk.

Lucy gave a small, tired laugh.

“…How did you-”

“You don’t call me at this time unless something happened.”

A beat.

Lucy nodded, even though Sarah couldn’t see it.

“…Yeah.”

She looked toward the stairs.

Didn’t see anything.

Didn’t need to.

“He did it again.”

Silence on the other end.

Not shocked.

Not confused.

Just… there.

“…Are you okay?” Sarah asked.

Lucy thought about it.

“Yeah.”

Another small pause.

“…No.”

She leaned forward, elbows on her knees.

“I think I’m done.”

The words came out quieter than she expected.

Like they’d already been said before.

Just not out loud.

Sarah didn’t jump in.

Didn’t rush to fill the space.

Lucy kept going.

“I keep thinking maybe I’m just… reacting,” she said. “Like I’m mad, or hurt, or tired, and I’m making a decision in that state.”

She rubbed her forehead lightly.

“He doesn’t hate me,” she added. “That’s the thing. He doesn’t. He still-”

She stopped.

Searched for the word.

“…He still loves me. In his way.”

Sarah let that sit.

Then-

“Yeah,” she said. “He probably does.”

Lucy blinked.

“You don’t think he’s a bad person.”

“I don’t,” Sarah said. “I think he’s a guy who keeps doing the same thing and hoping it won’t cost him everything.”

A beat.

“…and it finally did.”

Lucy swallowed.

“…So I’m not overreacting?”

“No.”

That came clean.

Immediate.

Lucy’s shoulders dropped just slightly.

“…but I keep thinking,” she said, “what if this is the one time he actually means it?”

Silence.

Then Sarah sighed softly.

“You might be right.”

Lucy looked up.

“What?”

“This time could be different,” Sarah said. “It’s possible.”

A beat.

Then-

“…but you’ve already given him fifty-five chances to prove that.”

Lucy closed her eyes.

“…Yeah.”

Sarah’s voice stayed calm.

“You’ve done everything you could,” she said. “You stayed. You worked around it. You tried to understand it. You gave him room to figure it out.”

Another pause.

“At some point,” Sarah continued, “it stops being about whether he can change.”

Lucy listened.

“It becomes about whether you’re willing to keep waiting to find out.”

That landed.

Lucy sat there, still.

Quiet.

Processing.

“…I don’t think I am,” she said.

Sarah didn’t respond right away.

She didn’t need to.

Lucy nodded to herself.

“…I’m not.”

A breath.

Then another.

“Okay,” Sarah said softly. “Then that’s your answer.”

Lucy looked toward the stairs again.

Still nothing.

“…Yeah.”

No anger.

No second guessing.

Just… clarity.

Mason stirred slightly on the floor nearby, shifting in his sleep.

Lucy glanced down at him.

Her expression softened.

Then steadied again.

“…I’m done,” she said.

This time, it didn’t sound like a question.

Upstairs

Nicky sat on the edge of the bed for a long time after Lucy left.

The room felt wrong.

Too quiet.

Too empty.

He looked at his phone.

Didn’t pick it up.

Looked again.

Then grabbed it.

Dialed.

It rang twice.

“McCrain residence,” Red answered.

Nicky exhaled.

“…Hey.”

A beat.

“Nicky?”

“Yeah.”

Red shifted on the other end.

“What happened?”

Nicky let out a short breath through his nose.

“I screwed it up.”

Silence.

Not surprised.

Not even disappointed.

Just… familiar.

“Well,” Red said gently, “that doesn’t mean it’s over. You can-”

“No.”

Nicky cut him off.

Not sharp.

Just certain.

There was something in it.

Red heard it immediately.

“…Oh.”

A pause.

Longer this time.

“You wanna tell me what happened?”

Nicky rubbed his face.

“It’s the same thing,” he said. “Just… not the same outcome.”

Red didn’t push.

“…Did Lucy kick you out?”

Nicky shook his head, even though Red couldn’t see it.

“No.”

A beat.

“…Not like that.”

Red waited.

“She didn’t throw me out,” Nicky said. “She just… checked out.”

That landed heavier.

“I can’t stay here,” he added. “Not now.”

Another pause.

“Feels like if I stay, I’m just… pretending it’s not already done.”

Red nodded slowly to himself.

“Alright.”

Nicky looked around the room.

At the broken vase.

At the bed.

At everything that still looked the same.

“I need somewhere to go,” he said. “Just for a bit. Figure things out.”

Red didn’t answer right away.

Because he’d heard this before.

Same words.

Same tone.

Different nights.

…but this-

This wasn’t the same.

“…You want a room?” Red asked.

“Yeah.”

“I’ll leave one open.”

Simple.

No conditions.

No lecture.

Just there.

Nicky nodded.

“…Thanks.”

A beat.

Then the words came out before he could stop them.

“I don’t think I’m good at this.”

Red frowned slightly.

“At what?”

“Any of it,” Nicky said. “Figuring things out. Life. Whatever this is supposed to be.”

He let out a dry laugh.

“I keep thinking I got it, and then-”

He gestured vaguely, even though no one could see it.

“-this.”

Red leaned back in his chair.

“…You know,” he said slowly, “I wasn’t exactly great at it either.”

Nicky didn’t respond.

So Red kept going.

“When you were twelve,” he said, “and the police picked you up at that party-”

Nicky huffed quietly.

“Yeah. I remember.”

“I sent you away,” Red said. “Boot camp.”

A beat.

“I thought I was fixing the problem.”

Nicky looked down.

Red’s voice softened.

“I wasn’t. I just didn’t understand you.”

Silence.

Nicky nodded slightly.

“…I didn’t understand me either,” he said.

That landed clean.

No blame.

No resentment.

Just truth.

“So,” Nicky added, “it makes sense you didn’t.”

Red let out a small breath.

“Still should’ve done better.”

“Yeah,” Nicky said.

Another pause.

Neither of them filled it.

They didn’t need to.

“…Drive safe,” Red said finally.

“Yeah.”

“…and Nicky-”

Nicky waited.

Red thought for a second.

Then didn’t overcomplicate it.

“…We’ll figure something out.”

Nicky almost smiled.

Almost.

“Yeah.”

The call ended.

The room was quiet again.

Nicky sat there for a second-

Then stood.

He grabbed a piece of paper from the desk.

A pen.

Stared at it.

Then started writing.

Slow at first.

Then quicker.

---

**“Hey.
I gotta go for a bit.
Don’t worry about me.

I love you guys.

I’ll come back when I’ve figured things out.”**

---

He stopped.

Looked at it.

Didn’t try to make it better.

Folded it once.

Set it on the kitchen counter where they’d see it.

Then went back to the bedroom.

Grabbed a bag.

Started packing.

Not everything.

Just what he needed.

Clothes.

Toiletries.

The laptop.

He paused.

Looked around one last time.

Then zipped the bag.

…and this time-

He didn’t sit back down.

Downstairs

The house was dark.

Nicky moved slowly down the stairs, one hand on the railing, the other holding his bag just enough to keep it from knocking into anything.

He knew where every step creaked.

Avoided most of them.

Not all.

The zipper brushed the wall.

A soft scrape.

Enough.

On the futon, Lucy stirred.

Then woke.

She didn’t sit up right away.

Just… watched.

Nicky reached the bottom step.

Set the bag down quietly.

Too late.

He turned.

Saw her.

A beat.

Neither of them spoke.

Lucy pushed herself up slowly, sitting on the edge of the futon.

Her eyes moved to the bag.

Then back to him.

She understood.

Immediately.

Not the details.

Not the logistics.

Just-

this is happening.

Her face shifted.

Not anger.

Not shock.

Something heavier.

Her hand came up to her mouth as it hit her all at once.

“…Okay,” she whispered.

It wasn’t agreement.

It was recognition.

Nicky nodded slightly.

Didn’t trust himself to say anything yet.

Lucy shook her head once.

Then the tears came.

Quiet at first.

Then not.

Nicky’s jaw tightened.

He looked away.

Didn’t help.

He stepped forward.

Stopped.

Then closed the distance.

Lucy stood.

They didn’t rush it.

Didn’t hesitate either.

They just-

-met in the middle.

…and held onto each other.

Tight.

Like they were trying to remember what it felt like.

Like they were trying to hold something in place that was already gone.

Nicky exhaled into her shoulder.

Lucy’s hand pressed into his back.

Neither of them said anything.

Because there wasn’t anything left to argue.

This wasn’t that moment.

This was after.

Eventually, Lucy pulled back just enough to look at him.

Her eyes were red.

“I still love you,” she said.

No hesitation.

No condition.

Just true.

Nicky nodded, already breaking again.

“…Yeah.”

A beat.

“I still love you too.”

They both stood there, letting that sit.

Because it didn’t fix anything.

It just made it harder.

Lucy let out a shaky breath.

“…This is just-”

She stopped.

Searched for the words.

“A new phase,” she said finally.

Nicky nodded.

“Yeah.”

Neither of them liked it.

Both of them knew it.

Lucy wiped at her face.

“We had to get here,” she added.

Nicky didn’t argue.

He couldn’t.

“…Yeah.”

Another pause.

Then Nicky shifted slightly, unsure now.

“I don’t want to just… disappear,” he said. “From you. From the kids.”

Lucy shook her head immediately.

“No.”

Firm.

“I don’t want that either.”

That part came easy.

They both needed it to.

Nicky nodded.

“Okay.”

Lucy let out a small breath.

“…We’re gonna have to figure out what that looks like.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s not gonna be easy.”

“I know.”

A beat.

…but this time-

It wasn’t empty.

It was… aligned.

For the first time that night, they weren’t pulling in opposite directions.

They just didn’t know where they were going.

Lucy glanced toward the door.

Then back at him.

“…Drive safe.”

Nicky almost smiled.

Almost.

“Yeah.”

He picked up the bag.

This time, he didn’t hesitate.

He walked to the door.

Opened it.

Cold air slipped in.

He stepped out-

Then paused.

Looked back.

Lucy was still standing there.

Watching.

He nodded once.

She nodded back.

…and that was it.

The door closed.

The house stayed quiet.

…but it wasn’t the same quiet anymore.

The Morning After

Morning came quietly.

Jonah was the first to stir.

He shifted under the blankets, blinking at the light coming through the window, taking a second to orient himself before reaching instinctively toward the side of the bed.

“Hey.”

Hailey was already awake.

Or close enough.

“I’m up,” she said, sitting up and rubbing her eyes.

Across the room, Tasha groaned.

“…Why are we alive this early.”

“Jonah’s up,” Hailey said.

“That’s not a reason.”

“It is for him.”

Tasha rolled over, then pushed herself up anyway.

“Yeah, yeah.”

Between the two of them, they moved through the routine without needing to talk about it.

Careful.

Practiced.

They helped Jonah sit up, then eased him into his chair.

Halfway through-

Jonah let one rip.

Loud.

Unapologetic.

Tasha recoiled.

“By golly-”

Hailey turned away, laughing despite herself.

“Jonah-”

Jonah just grinned.

Didn’t say a word.

“Do you have to do that every time?” Tasha said, waving a hand in front of her face.

Jonah shrugged.

Still smiling.

They rolled him out into the hallway.

The house felt… off.

Not loud.

Not quiet.

Just missing something.

They reached the kitchen.

Lucy sat at the table.

Coffee in hand.

Doing nothing.

That was the first sign.

The second-

Mason.

In his high chair.

Covered in food.

Actively making it worse.

Lucy didn’t stop him.

Didn’t even look at him.

Tasha slowed.

“…Okay.”

Hailey noticed it too.

Lucy always stopped that.

Always.

“Morning,” Lucy said.

Her voice was steady.

Too steady.

“Morning,” Hailey replied.

Tasha didn’t say anything.

She just watched.

Declan shuffled in next, still half-asleep, followed by Zoey, who went straight to the table.

“What’s for breakfast?” Declan asked.

Lucy didn’t answer right away.

“…We’ll figure something out,” she said.

Another sign.

Hailey’s eyes moved across the counter.

That’s when she saw it.

A folded piece of paper.

“…What’s that?”

Lucy followed her gaze.

Paused.

Then-

“Your dad left you a note.”

That landed.

Tasha stepped forward immediately, grabbing it before anyone else could.

She unfolded it.

Read it.

Once.

Then again.

Slower.

Her expression didn’t explode.

It tightened.

“…He left?”

Hailey stepped closer, reading over her shoulder.

Jonah watched from his chair.

Declan and Zoey hovered nearby, trying to piece it together.

“What do you mean he left?” Declan asked.

Lucy set her coffee down.

“He needed some space,” she said. “He’s going to stay at Axolotl Acres for now. With your grandfather.”

“Why?” Zoey asked.

Lucy met her eyes.

Because there was no way around it.

“Because your dad and I… aren’t together anymore.”

Silence.

It didn’t hit all at once.

It spread.

Slow.

Uneven.

Tasha scoffed.

“…What, like a break?”

“No,” Lucy said.

Not harsh.

Not loud.

…but clear.

“Not like a break.”

That landed differently.

Tasha looked down at the note again.

Then away.

Then back.

Her brain trying to find somewhere to put it.

“…So he’s just… gone?”

“For now,” Lucy said.

Tasha let out a breath.

“…Los Auras is nicer anyway,” she muttered. “Beach, sun, people actually doing stuff…”

For a second-

She almost smiled.

Then it faded.

Because that wasn’t what this was.

“…Right,” she said, quieter.

Hailey didn’t speak.

She just stood there, absorbing it.

Jonah looked at Lucy.

“…He coming back?”

Lucy nodded.

“Yes.”

That part she didn’t hesitate on.

“He loves you. That doesn’t change.”

A beat.

“We’re still a family,” she added. “We’re just… figuring out how it works now.”

Declan frowned.

“So what happens?”

Lucy took a breath.

Honest.

Measured.

“I don’t know exactly,” she said, “but your dad and I are both going to make sure you’re taken care of. We’ll figure out schedules, where everyone stays… all of it.”

She looked at each of them.

“You don’t have to decide anything right now.”

That mattered.

“You can stay with me, with him, both- we’ll work it out together.”

Zoey leaned against the counter.

“…So nothing’s normal anymore.”

Lucy nodded slightly.

“…Not the same normal.”

That was the truth.

Tasha folded the note, then unfolded it again.

Didn’t know what to do with her hands.

Hailey stepped back slightly, giving space.

Jonah sat quietly, processing.

Mason dropped something off his tray and laughed.

The sound cut through everything.

Lucy looked at him.

Then back at the others.

Still steady.

Still holding it together.

Even now.

“Okay,” she said softly.

“Let’s just… start the day.”

Chapter 2

Alisa Corvina’s Home, Republic of Orlando

The apartment was quiet in a way Orlando rarely was.

Not silent—never that.

Just… muffled.

Distant traffic. A helicopter somewhere too far to matter. The low hum of a city that never really stopped, just lowered its voice.

Alisa Corvina sat at the kitchen counter, one leg tucked under her, coffee cooling in her hand.

Her phone buzzed.

She ignored it.

Another buzz.

Then two in quick succession.

Alisa frowned slightly, setting the mug down and reaching for the phone.

Notifications.

More than usual.

Mentions.

Tags.

A missed call.

She unlocked it.

Scrolled once.

Stopped.

There it was.

A headline.

Loud. Bold. Designed.

“BATTLEHAWKS COACH CAUGHT WITH BASTION REPORTER- HOW CLOSE IS TOO CLOSE?”

Alisa stared at it.

Didn’t click it.

Didn’t need to.

She already knew.

Still-

She tapped.

The page loaded.

…and there it was.

Siesta Key.

Sunlight.

Water behind them.

Her.

Dwayne Carman.

Laughing.

Leaning into him.

Another photo-

His arm around her.

Her hand resting against his chest.

…and then-

The one they chose.

Of course it was.

The kiss.

Not long.

Not hidden.

Just a moment.

Caught.

Flattened.

Reframed.

Alisa exhaled slowly.

“…Yeah.”

No surprise.

Just recognition.

She scrolled.

The article didn’t say anything outright.

It didn’t need to.

It asked questions.

Suggested connections.

Let the reader decide what they were already being told to believe.

Alisa let out a small breath through her nose.

“They picked the one frame.”

Of course they did.

She set the phone down for a second.

Then picked it back up.

Scrolled further.

Comments.

Replies.

Screenshots already spreading.

Some defending her.

Most not.

“She knew what she was doing.”

“Classic media bias.”

“Access journalism at its finest.”

Alisa’s expression didn’t change.

…but something in her posture did.

A slight drop.

A shift.

Not shock.

Not even anger.

Just… weight.

She leaned back in her chair, phone still in her hand, eyes drifting away from the screen.

The moment replayed in her head.

The beach.

The conversation.

The laugh.

The ease of it.

Nothing hidden.

Nothing calculated.

Nothing that felt like it needed to be explained.

…and now-

Everything about it did.

Her phone buzzed again.

She looked down.

Another notification.

Another mention.

Another version of her she didn’t recognize.

Alisa stared at the screen for a long second.

Then locked it.

Set it down.

Looked out the window.

Orlando stretched out in front of her- bright, busy, alive, unchanged.

For everyone else.

“…Okay,” she said quietly.

Not denial.

Not acceptance.

Just- the moment before something had to give.

Because whether she explained it or not-

Whether it was true or not-

It didn’t matter.

They were going to decide what it meant.

…and she was going to have to live with that.

Orlando Bastion Editorial Office

The conference room door closed with a soft click.

That was the signal.

Not that this was formal- no one had called it a meeting- but everyone who needed to be there was there.

Phones on the table. Laptops open. One screen at the end of the room showing the article.

No one commented on it right away.

They’d all read it.

More than once.

“She didn’t do anything wrong.”

It came from the far end of the table.

Flat. Certain.

No one disagreed.

“Of course she didn’t,” another editor said. “She’s a sports reporter, not his handler.”

“…and she’s not assigned to the Battlehawks,” someone added. “Even if she was, this still isn’t what they’re implying.”

A few nods.

Not defensive.

Just aligned.

One of them leaned back slightly, arms crossed.

“They framed it well.”

That got a look.

“I mean that technically,” he clarified. “They didn’t say anything actionable. They just… guided it.”

“Yeah,” someone muttered. “That’s what they do.”

A pause.

Then-

“How bad is it?”

A laptop turned slightly so the rest could see.

Metrics.

Engagement.

Mentions climbing.

Faster than anything they’d run that week.

“It’s moving,” the editor said.

“Of course it is.”

Another silence.

Heavier this time.

Not about truth.

About reality.

“They don’t care if it’s accurate,” someone said.

“They care if it looks right.”

“…and it looks right enough,” another replied.

That was the problem.

One of the senior editors exhaled slowly.

“…We can’t ignore it.”

No one liked that.

…but no one pushed back either.

“If we say nothing,” she continued, “it looks like we’re protecting her.”

“We are protecting her,” someone said.

“Yes,” she replied, “but we can’t look like we’re protecting her.”

That landed.

Clean.

Uncomfortable.

Another editor leaned forward slightly.

“So what- statement? Denial? Pushback?”

“No,” she said immediately. “That feeds it.”

“Then what?”

A beat.

Then-

“We acknowledge it.”

Careful wording.

“We take it seriously,” she continued. “We review it internally. Standard process.”

Someone shook their head.

“There’s nothing to review.”

“I know that,” she said. “You know that. They don’t.”

“…and the public doesn’t care either way,” someone added.

“Exactly.”

Another pause.

Then the question everyone was circling:

“…Alisa?”

The room shifted slightly.

“She’s not the problem,” someone said.

“No,” Cara, the senior editor replied, “but she’s in the story.”

A beat.

“We put her on leave.”

That got immediate reactions.

“Come on.”

“That looks bad.”

“It looks like we think she did something.”

“It looks like we’re doing something,” Cara corrected.

Silence.

She let that sit.

“Paid leave,” she added. “Administrative. We announce an internal review. No commentary beyond that.”

“…and then what?” someone asked.

“We wait.”

“For what?”

“For it to burn out,” she said.

Another editor leaned forward.

“…and when it does?”

“We close the review,” she said. “No findings. No impropriety. She comes back.”

Simple.

Clinical.

Almost.

No one spoke for a moment.

Because everyone in the room knew two things were true at the same time:

• Alisa didn’t deserve this
• This was still the best way to handle it

“…She’s not going to like it,” someone said.

“No,” the senior editor replied. “She’s not.”

Another pause.

Then, quieter-

“…but it protects her.”

Not from the story.

That part was already out.

From the fallout.

From the escalation.

From becoming something bigger than it needed to be.

The screen at the end of the table refreshed.

Numbers climbing again.

No one looked surprised.

The senior editor closed her laptop.

“Alright,” she said. “We keep it tight. No leaks. No opinions. This is process, nothing more.”

No one argued.

Because this wasn’t about being right.

It was about surviving it.

Cara’s Office

Cara didn’t stand when Alisa walked in.

Not out of disrespect.

Out of familiarity.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey.”

The door closed behind Alisa with a soft click.

For a second, neither of them sat.

Then Cara gestured.

“Sit.”

Alisa did.

She didn’t put her bag down.

Cara noticed.

Didn’t comment.

“I’m glad you came in,” Cara said. “I know we talked already.”

“Yeah,” Alisa replied. “I just… didn’t want to do this over the phone.”

“That’s fair.”

A beat.

Cara leaned forward slightly, hands folded.

“You’ve seen it.”

“Yeah.”

“…and the reaction.”

“Yeah.”

No emotion in the answers.

That was new.

Cara nodded once.

“Okay.”

She didn’t circle it.

Didn’t soften it.

“This isn’t a punishment.”

Alisa didn’t respond.

Just watched her.

“It’s a tactic,” Cara continued. “We need it to look like we’re taking it seriously without turning it into something bigger than it already is.”

Alisa let out a small breath through her nose.

“So we pretend.”

Cara shook her head.

“We manage.”

“That’s not better.”

“No,” Cara said. “It’s not.”

A pause.

Then-

“We’re placing you on paid administrative leave.”

There it was.

Clean.

Official.

“Full pay,” Cara added. “No change to your contract. No disciplinary record. This is process, nothing more.”

Alisa leaned back slightly.

Eyes drifting for a second.

Then back.

“…and the investigation.”

“Internal review,” Cara said. “Standard language. We’ll close it in a week or two. No findings. You come back.”

Like it was simple.

Like it was already decided.

Because it was.

Alisa nodded slowly.

“…Right.”

Another beat.

Then the edge came in.

“You know this wouldn’t hit the same if I were a guy.”

Cara didn’t hesitate.

“I do.”

“…and you know exactly what this is,” Alisa continued. “Two adults on a beach. That’s it.”

“I know.”

“…and somehow that turns into- what? Credibility questions? Professional integrity?”

Cara held her gaze.

“I know.”

Alisa shook her head.

“…It’s insane.”

“Yes.”

No pushback.

No debate.

Just agreement.

…and that almost made it worse.

Alisa let out a quiet laugh.

“So we’re just… going to let them decide what it means.”

Cara sat back slightly.

“We’re going to let it run out of oxygen.”

“That’s the same thing.”

“No,” Cara said. “It’s the only way this doesn’t get bigger.”

A pause.

Alisa looked down at her hands.

Then back up.

“You don’t think I did anything wrong.”

“I don’t.”

“The paper doesn’t think I did anything wrong.”

“It doesn’t.”

“…but I still have to step away.”

Cara didn’t answer right away.

Because there wasn’t a way to make that sound good.

“…Yes.”

Alisa nodded once.

There it was.

Reality.

Not fair.

Not clean.

Just… real.

Cara’s tone softened slightly.

“You’re good at what you do,” she said. “This doesn’t change that.”

Alisa didn’t respond.

“Which is why I’m telling you this,” Cara added.

A beat.

“Don’t make any rash decisions.”

Alisa looked at her.

Cara held steady.

“If you want to come back, you’ll come back to the same desk, the same role, the same backing.”

Another pause.

“…and if you don’t…”

She let that hang for a second.

“…you won’t leave empty-handed.”

Alisa’s expression shifted slightly.

Not surprised.

Just… registering it.

“You’ll have references,” Cara continued. “From me. From the board. From anyone you need.”

That landed.

Because it meant:

👉 they were prepared for her to leave

Even if they didn’t want her to.

“.,,and if that’s the direction you go,” Cara finished, “we’ll make it as painless as we can.”

Silence.

Not awkward.

Not hostile.

Just… final.

Alisa nodded slowly.

“…Okay.”

She stood.

This time, she did set her bag down- just long enough to adjust the strap properly.

Then picked it back up.

Cara didn’t get up.

Didn’t try to stop her.

“Take a couple days,” she said. “Let it settle.”

Alisa paused at the door.

Hand on the handle.

She didn’t turn around.

“…Yeah.”

Then she opened it-

…and stepped back into the newsroom.

Where everything looked exactly the same.

Even though it wasn’t.

Dinosaur Sanctuary

The air smelled like salt, heat, and something older underneath it.

Not rot.

Not quite earth.

Something… animal.

Alisa stepped onto the observation platform, sunglasses still in her hand, eyes adjusting to the brightness reflecting off the water below.

The enclosure stretched wide- steel, reinforced glass, layered barriers that suggested control without ever fully promising it.

Movement cut across the far side.

Fast.

Precise.

She spotted Serena, her older daughter, first.

Kneeling near the fence line, one hand steady, the other extended just enough to hold attention without provoking it.

A velociraptor- sleek, dark, alert- watched her closely.

Vanta.

The Battlehawks’ mascot.

Up close, there was nothing playful about it.

Its head tilted.

Measured.

Then, slowly, it stepped forward.

Serena didn’t move.

Didn’t rush.

Didn’t hesitate.

“Easy,” she said, voice low.

The raptor stopped just short of her hand.

Held there.

Watching.

Then-

It leaned in.

A controlled, deliberate nudge.

Serena let out a quiet breath.

“Good.”

Alisa smiled despite herself.

“…That never gets normal.”

“Yeah, it does,” Serena said, without looking back. “You just forget what they can do.”

Fair.

Off to the side-

“Hey!”

Roxy’s voice.

Alisa turned.

Alisa’s younger daughter, Ruxandra or “Roxy”, stood near the secondary enclosure, bucket in hand, grinning like she owned the place. She was only receiving academic credit for working at the sanctuary, but she was still having the time of her life.

“Watch this.”

Before Alisa could say anything, Roxy crouched slightly and tossed a piece of fish out over the water.

A ripple.

Then-

A surge.

The mosasaur broke the surface in a flash of muscle and teeth, snapping the fish clean out of the air before crashing back down with a heavy splash.

Water sprayed the edge of the platform.

Roxy laughed.

“See? Easy.”

Alisa stared at her.

“…You say that like it’s a dog.”

“It basically is,” Roxy said. “Just bigger…and worse.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“It’s not supposed to be.”

Serena stood, brushing her hands off as Vanta moved past her, circling with quiet, contained energy.

She finally turned.

“You made it.”

Alisa nodded.

“Yeah.”

A beat.

Then Serena’s eyes shifted- subtle, but immediate.

“…You okay?”

Roxy looked between them.

Then at Alisa.

“…You saw it.”

Not a question.

Alisa exhaled.

“Yeah.”

Silence settled.

Not awkward.

Just… understood.

“They’re using the kiss,” Roxy said.

“Of course they are,” Serena added.

Alisa gave a small, tired smile.

“They picked the one frame.”

“Yeah,” Roxy said. “That’s kind of their thing.”

Serena stepped closer, leaning lightly against the railing.

“So what are you doing?”

Alisa didn’t answer right away.

She watched Vanta circle once more before settling near the shade.

Then-

“I’ve got options.”

That got both their attention.

“What kind of options?” Roxy asked.

“…Leaving,” Alisa said.

Not dramatic.

Just stated.

Roxy blinked.

Serena didn’t.

“Okay,” Serena said. “Where?”

“I don’t know yet,” Alisa replied. “I’m just… thinking.”

Roxy shifted her weight.

“…and me?”

There it was.

Alisa met her eyes.

“You’d come with me.”

Roxy nodded slowly.

Not upset.

Just processing.

Serena glanced between them.

“I don’t have to,” she said. “I can stay here.”

Alisa nodded.

“I know.”

…and she meant it.

“That’s your choice.”

Serena looked back toward the enclosure, where Vanta had settled into a watchful stillness.

“…Yeah.”

A beat.

Roxy leaned back against the railing, quieter now.

“You’re not deciding today.”

“No,” Alisa said. “I’m not deciding today.”

She looked at both of them.

“I’m not going to blindside you with it either.”

That mattered.

Roxy nodded.

Serena did too.

For a moment, none of them spoke.

Just stood there, the sounds of the sanctuary filling the space- water, movement, distant calls that didn’t belong to anything modern.

Then-

Vanta moved.

Fast.

Alisa barely had time to react before the raptor closed the distance-

…and pressed its body lightly against her side.

Not aggressive.

Not territorial.

Just… contact.

Alisa froze for half a second.

Then let out a breath.

“…Okay.”

Serena smiled.

“Yeah,” she said. “That’s Vanta.”

Roxy grinned.

“He likes you.”

Serena shook her head slightly.

“No.”

A beat.

“He knows.”

Alisa glanced down at the raptor, one hand hovering before resting lightly against its side.

Warm.

Solid.

Present.

Serena leaned on the railing again.

“He senses when something’s off.”

Roxy nodded.

“Yeah. They all do.”

Alisa didn’t argue.

She just stood there for a second longer, letting the moment settle.

“…Good call,” she murmured quietly.

Not to Serena.

Not to Roxy.

To the animal.

…and maybe-

to herself.

Alisa’s Home

The call ended cleanly.

No dramatic pause.

No “we’ll be in touch.”

Just-

“We’d like to move forward.”

Alisa sat there for a second, laptop still open, the reflection of her own face faint in the screen.

Professional.

Composed.

Already transitioning.

They had asked the right questions.

Not soft ones.

Not easy ones.

Work.

Standards.

Expectations.

They hadn’t brought up the photos directly.

Didn’t need to.

It was understood.

“References, formalities,” the editor had said. “We’ll get that processed, but- yes. We’d like you.”

Like it was already decided.

Because, in practice, it was.

Alisa closed the laptop.

Exhaled.

Not relief.

Not exactly.

Just… movement.

She stood and stepped out onto the balcony.

The mosquito net shifted slightly as she passed through, the faint hum of insects muffled to almost nothing.

Outside, the heat sat heavy.

Roxy was stretched out on a chair, sunglasses on, one leg bouncing slightly to music only she could hear.

She didn’t look up.

“Hey.”

Alisa leaned against the railing.

“Hey.”

Roxy tilted her head just enough to see her.

“…You got the job.”

Not a question.

Alisa smiled faintly.

“Yeah.”

That got her.

Roxy sat up immediately, pulling the headphones down around her neck.

“No way.”

“Yeah.”

“That was fast.”

“It was,” Alisa admitted.

Roxy swung her legs off the chair, energy shifting instantly.

“So we’re going?”

Alisa held up a hand slightly.

“Most likely.”

Roxy narrowed her eyes.

“That’s not the same thing.”

“It’s the accurate thing,” Alisa said.

A beat.

“They still have to check references. Process paperwork. All the stuff they say is routine.”

Roxy waved that off.

“That’s done.”

Alisa almost laughed.

“…It probably is.”

That was enough.

Roxy grinned, leaning back again.

“Los Auras.”

She said it like it was already happening.

“Beaches. Sun. No more-” she gestured vaguely toward the city behind them “-this.”

Alisa watched her for a second.

Then-

“This isn’t a vacation.”

Roxy paused.

Looked at her.

“I know.”

“You’re still in school.”

“I know.”

“You’re still going to have expectations. Structure. Work.”

Roxy pushed herself upright again, more serious now.

“I said I know.”

A beat.

Then, softer-

“I’ll do it properly.”

Alisa held her gaze.

Making sure.

Roxy didn’t flinch.

“…Okay.”

That settled.

For now.

Roxy leaned back again, but not fully relaxed.

“…Rosario, right?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s still RUWS.”

“It is.”

Roxy nodded slowly.

Thinking.

Then-

“…Dad’s in Vancouver.”

There it was.

Alisa didn’t react immediately.

Didn’t need to.

Roxy kept going.

“If we’re closer…”

She didn’t finish it.

Didn’t have to.

Alisa looked out past the netting, the skyline stretching out, familiar and already starting to feel distant.

“…Maybe,” she said.

Honest.

Not dismissive.

Not promising.

Roxy watched her.

Trying to read something more into it.

“…You don’t think so.”

“I think,” Alisa said carefully, “that it’s not something we can count on.”

A beat.

“…but it doesn’t mean it won’t happen.”

That was as far as she’d go.

Roxy nodded.

Not disappointed.

Just… adjusting expectations.

“…Okay.”

Silence settled between them.

Not heavy.

Just… real.

Alisa stepped further out onto the balcony, leaning beside her daughter now instead of apart from her.

“You good with this?” she asked.

Roxy didn’t hesitate this time.

“Yeah.”

No performance.

No edge.

Just true.

“I want out of here.”

Alisa nodded slightly.

“…Yeah.”

That part, they agreed on.

Roxy glanced at her again.

“…You ready?”

Alisa thought about it.

About the job.

The story.

The city.

Everything that had shifted in the past few days.

Then-

“Yeah,” she said.

…and this time-

It sounded like a decision.

Communal Unity Mosaic, El Requeson District 8

The name hit Roxy first.

They were still standing outside the building when she said it.

“…Wait.”

Alisa was adjusting one of the bags on her shoulder.

“What?”

Roxy looked back at the signage.

Communal Unity Mosaic.

She blinked.

Then-

“Oh by Jove.”

Alisa paused.

“…What?”

Roxy turned to her, already grinning.

“You know what that spells, right?”

Alisa stared at her.

A beat.

Then it clicked.

“…Oh.”

Roxy laughed immediately.

“C.U.M.”

Alisa exhaled through her nose.

“…Yeah.”

“That’s insane.”

“It’s unfortunate.”

“It’s amazing.”

“It’s not amazing.”

Roxy was still laughing as they walked toward the entrance.

“I can’t believe they named it that.”

“I’m sure they didn’t mean to.”

“They absolutely didn’t.”

They stepped inside.

The building didn’t match the name.

No grandeur.

No polish.

Concrete floors.

Faded paint.

Functional lighting that hummed faintly overhead.

It wasn’t neglected.

It just wasn’t pretending to be anything.

At the far end of the lobby stood the superintendent.

A nun.

Full habit.

Hands folded.

Watching them.

Roxy clocked her immediately.

“…Oh, this is going to be fun.”

Alisa shot her a look.

“Behave.”

“I am behaving.”

They approached.

The nun’s gaze moved from Alisa-

to Roxy.

…and stopped.

Roxy didn’t look away.

Her outfit didn’t invite subtlety.

A top that was more necklace than fabric- chains and structure doing just enough to qualify as clothing. A short skirt. Knee-high stockings. Heels that clicked lightly against the concrete floor.

She had dressed for heat.

For comfort, in her own logic.

…and, if she was being honest-

to be seen.

The hair caught the light first- blue, brightened, intentional.

The makeup made sure it stayed.

Sharp lines. Deliberate colour. No softness anywhere it wasn’t chosen.

Nothing accidental.

The kind of look that said she had decided how she would be seen before anyone else got the chance.

Los Auras, in her mind, was supposed to be glamorous.

The nun took her time.

“…You’re new.”

Alisa nodded.

“Yes. We just arrived.”

A pause.

Then the nun, still looking at Roxy:

“You’ll want to be careful.”

Roxy tilted her head slightly.

“Careful of what?”

The nun didn’t blink.

“Leading the boys astray.”

Silence.

Then-

Roxy rolled her eyes.

Not dramatically.

Just enough.

“I think the boys will survive.”

Alisa stepped in before it could go anywhere else.

“We’ll be mindful,” she said calmly.

The nun nodded once.

Whether she believed that or not was unclear.

“District 8 has expectations,” she said.

Then, after a beat-

“Welcome.”

---

The apartment was on the third floor.

Up narrow stairs.

No elevator in service. Closed.

A strip of tape stretched across them.

OUT OF SERVICE.

The sign looked like it had been there a while.

Roxy glanced at it.

“…Of course.”

Alisa didn’t respond.

She just shifted her grip on the bags and started toward the stairs.

Inside-

It was exactly what the building promised.

Workmanlike.

Clean, but worn.

Furniture that had seen other tenants.

Walls that had been repainted more than once.

The balcony door stuck slightly when Alisa opened it.

Outside-

Another mosquito net.

This one patched in places with duct tape.

Roxy stepped out first.

Looked around.

Took it in.

“…Okay.”

Alisa watched her.

“…Okay good or okay bad?”

Roxy shrugged.

“…Okay real.”

That was enough.

---

Boxes stayed unpacked longer than they should have.

Half-open.

Half-placed.

Alisa worked steadily.

Roxy worked in bursts.

At one point, Alisa stepped out into the hallway just to breathe.

Another door down-

Boxes.

Same as hers.

Someone else- Nicky McCrain- moving in.

He glanced up as she did.

A beat.

Just long enough to acknowledge each other.

Not long enough to matter.

“…New?” he asked.

His tone was easy.

Too easy, maybe.

Alisa nodded.

“Yeah.”

He shifted a box with his foot.

“Same.”

A pause.

They stood there for a second- two people doing the same thing in the same place for completely different reasons.

“I just got in today,” she said.

“Yeah?”

He nodded.

“District 8.”

“Us too.”

Another beat.

Then-

“I already applied for RASP.”

That made her blink.

“…Already?”

“I move fast.”

“That was fast.”

He shrugged.

“I think I’ll get it.”

There it was.

Not confidence.

Not quite arrogance.

Just… certainty.

Alisa studied him for a second.

“You don’t even know how this place works yet.”

He smiled slightly.

“Sure I do.”

That didn’t make sense.

Before she could press-

A voice from inside her apartment:

“Mom- where does this go?”

Alisa glanced back.

Then to him again.

“…Good luck,” she said.

“You too.”

She turned back inside.

Didn’t look back.

…but she was thinking about it.

Chapter 3

Catholic Academies of the North Temple, El Requeson District 8

The halls of the Academy always smelled faintly of polish and control.

Not cleanliness- control.

Hailey McCrain had learned the difference within her first week.

Three months in, she moved through those halls like someone who understood the rules and chose not to respect them.

Her uniform sat just inside acceptable limits- technically compliant, deliberately off. The skirt shortened, but not enough to get flagged. The shirt tucked, but loose. The tie slightly off-center, like it had lost an argument.

It was the kind of rebellion that didn’t get punished.

The kind that got noticed anyway.

Which, to Hailey, was the point.

She adjusted the strap of her bag, moving past a row of lockers, half-listening to the noise around her- laughter, whispers, the echo of shoes on tile.

It all felt rehearsed.

Like everyone already knew how they were supposed to act.

Most of them did.

Hailey didn’t bother.

Today especially.

She just…moved through it.

That was when she saw her.

Down the hall, near the intersection by the administrative office- a small crowd had formed, the way it always did when something interesting threatened to happen.

…and at the center of it-

Blue hair.

Not subtle blue. Not “I tried to blend it in” blue.

Bright. Intentional. Loud.

Double pigtails.

Makeup that didn’t whisper- it announced.

Clean skin, sharply defined features, eyes lined with the kind of precision that said this wasn’t an accident. This was effort. First-day effort.

Hailey slowed slightly.

New girl.

You could always tell.

The mistake wasn’t the hair.

It was the confidence.

Or maybe the assumption.

Because standing in front of her-

A teacher.

Ruler already out.

Of course.

Hailey didn’t need to get closer to know what was happening.

Still, she drifted within earshot.

“…regulation states that the hemline must fall-”

The teacher didn’t even sound angry. Just… practiced.

Measured.

Like this was routine.

The ruler hovered, then pressed lightly against the fabric.

A pause.

Then, without drama:

“Detention.”

The word landed like paperwork.

Not punishment.

Documentation.

A few students nearby exchanged glances. Someone snorted quietly. Another leaned in, curious but careful not to be seen caring.

The girl- Roxy, though Hailey didn’t know that yet- didn’t argue.

Didn’t apologize.

Didn’t even look particularly surprised.

She just exhaled through her nose, like she had expected something like this… just not this quickly.

Hailey watched for a second longer.

Then made a decision.

Not intervention.

She wasn’t that kind of person.

…but she also wasn’t going to just walk past.

So when the teacher finished writing something down and dismissed her with a curt nod, Hailey stepped forward.

Timing it so it didn’t look intentional.

“Hey.”

The girl turned.

Up close, the look was even more deliberate. The makeup wasn’t messy- it was crafted. The kind of face that said, I want to be seen.

Hailey tilted her head slightly.

“First day?”

A beat.

Then the girl smirked, just a little.

“That obvious?”

“Yeah.”

Hailey glanced back briefly in the direction of the teacher.

“You lasted… what, three minutes?”

“Two and a half,” the girl said. “I think I set a record.”

That earned the smallest hint of a smile from Hailey.

“Name?”

“Roxy.”

“Hailey.”

They stood there for a moment, the hallway flowing around them.

Roxy adjusted her bag, then gestured vaguely back toward where the ruler incident had just occurred.

“So… is it always like that?”

Hailey didn’t sugarcoat it.

“Yeah.”

A pause.

Then, more quietly:

“…but only if they care.”

Roxy raised an eyebrow.

“That’s… not comforting.”

“It’s not supposed to be.”

Hailey shifted her weight, studying her for a second- not judging, just… assessing.

“You stood out.”

“I was going for that.”

“Yeah,” Hailey said. “They noticed.”

Roxy let out a short laugh.

“Guess I aimed wrong.”

Another beat.

Then Roxy’s eyes flicked downward- quick, sharp.

She looked back up.

“…You know your skirt’s shorter than mine, right?”

Hailey didn’t even look down.

She already knew.

“Yeah.”

Roxy blinked.

“Then why- ”

“Give it time.”

The answer came easy.

Too easy.

Hailey finally glanced down at her own uniform, brushing the fabric flat with one hand.

“If you don’t cause trouble,” she continued, “they stop looking for you.”

Roxy studied her now, more carefully.

“…and if you do cause trouble?”

Hailey’s mouth curved slightly.

“My sister Tasha has yet to learn that.”

There was something in the way she said it- half amusement, half warning.

Roxy caught it.

“…So this place just… watches you?”

“It profiles you,” Hailey said.

A beat.

“Then it decides how much effort you’re worth.”

That hung in the air for a second.

Students moved around them. A bell rang in the distance.

Roxy adjusted one of her pigtails, thinking.

Then she smiled again- different this time.

Less performative.

More… real.

“Well,” she said, “I guess I made a strong first impression.”

Hailey shrugged.

“You made an impression.”

Roxy laughed at that.

…and just like that, something settled between them.

Not friendship.

Not yet.

…but recognition.

Two people standing in a system that already thought it understood them-

Quietly deciding it didn’t.

“Where’s your class?” Hailey asked.

Roxy pulled a folded schedule from her bag, smoothing it out.

“…No idea.”

Hailey nodded.

“Yeah. That tracks.”

She turned slightly, gesturing down the hall.

“Come on. I’ll show you.”

Roxy hesitated- just for a fraction of a second.

Then followed.

…and as they walked, the hallway didn’t feel quite as controlled as it had a moment before.

Not broken.

Not changed.

Just…

Less certain.

The hallway narrowed as they moved deeper into the academic wing, the noise thinning from chaos to something more controlled- voices lower, footsteps sharper, teachers closer.

Roxy walked beside Hailey, glancing around like she was mapping the place in real time.

“Okay,” Roxy said, tugging lightly at one of her pigtails, “before you ask- yeah, it’s natural.”

Hailey didn’t look at her.

“The hair?”

“Yeah.”

Now Hailey glanced over, actually studying it as they walked.

“…Doesn’t look dyed.”

“It’s not.”

“You did something to it.”

Roxy grinned.

“Highlights. Just to make it pop more.”

Hailey nodded once.

“Figures.”

Roxy tilted her head.

“You don’t sound impressed.”

“I’m deciding if you’re lying.”

That got a quick laugh out of Roxy.

“Fair.”

She let the strand fall, then added, more casually:

“My mom says it’s from Lizardfolk ancestry.”

Hailey kept walking.

“…You believe that?”

Roxy shrugged as they passed a classroom, a teacher’s voice leaking into the hall before the door shut.

“I don’t not believe it.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only honest one.”

Hailey gave a faint, almost invisible smirk.

“Yeah. That’s fair.”

They turned a corner. Fewer students here. Lockers, but quieter. More eyes from open classroom doors.

Roxy bumped her bag higher on her shoulder.
“So where are you from?”

“Copper Bay.”

Roxy blinked.

“…Up north?”

“Sǫ̀mbak’è.”

That slowed Roxy half a step.

“Seriously?”

Hailey didn’t break stride.

“Yeah.”

Roxy looked at her again- this time reassessing.

“That’s… not a small move.”

“No.”

“What’s it like?”

Hailey thought about it.

“Cold.”

Roxy snorted.

“I walked into that one.”

“…and quiet,” Hailey added. “Until it isn’t.”

Roxy nodded slowly, filing that away.

“…I moved here from Orlando.”

Hailey glanced at her.

“That’s a long way.”

Not impressed. Just factual.

Roxy noticed.

“You’ve heard of it?”

“Yeah.”

“What’d you hear?”

Hailey shrugged slightly.

“Hot. Busy. Lot of people trying to control things.”

Roxy let out a short laugh.

“That’s… actually pretty accurate.”

They passed a teacher standing in a doorway. Both girls straightened just enough to avoid attention, then relaxed again once they were past.

“My mom got a job here,” Roxy said. “Newspaper. Iris of the Gulf.”

Hailey nodded.

“That makes sense.”

“Yeah,” Roxy said. “She wanted out too, but… that was the main thing.”

A beat.

“Orlando’s just… a lot right now.”

“RUWS base,” Hailey said.

“Yeah,” Roxy replied. “Big one. They say it’s for stability.”

“They always say that.”

Roxy glanced at her.

“…Yeah.”

Another step.

“Seminoles don’t even agree where the border is,” Roxy added. “So it’s just tension all the time. You don’t see it every day, but it’s… there.”

Hailey nodded.

“Places don’t stay like that forever.”

Roxy didn’t argue.

“…and my parents are splitting,” she added. “So that didn’t help.”

That landed.

Hailey looked ahead, jaw tightening just a touch.

“Yeah.”

Roxy caught it.

“You too?”

Hailey nodded once.

“My dad. Nicky.”

Roxy waited.

“He’s splitting from Lucy,” Hailey added. “So we moved.”

“We?”

“Me, my sister Tasha, and my brother Jonah.”

Roxy’s tone softened- no pity, just interest.

“What’s Jonah like?”

Hailey’s expression shifted- subtle, but real.

“He’s in a wheelchair. SMA.”

Roxy nodded, taking that in.

“He okay?”

“He’s fine,” Hailey said. Then, after a beat, “Smarter than everyone else in the house.”

Roxy smiled.

“I believe that.”

Hailey exhaled lightly through her nose.

“My dad calls him ‘Stink Bomb.’”

Roxy blinked.

“…I’m sorry?”

“He can fart on command.”

There was a beat-

Then Roxy cracked, laughing out loud before catching herself as a nearby classroom door opened.

“No way.”

“I’m serious.”

“That’s-”

“Yeah.”

They both settled again as the door shut and the hallway quieted.

“…but he got really into sports,” Hailey added. “Like, obsessively.”

Roxy perked up instantly.

“Oh, okay, there we go.”

“Started watching everything,” Hailey continued. “Mostly Los Auras. Games, highlights, stats… all of it.”

“…and it pulled you in,” Roxy said.

Hailey gave a small shrug.

“…Yeah.”

A beat.

“They’re fun,” she added. “The Dragons.”

Roxy stopped for half a step.

“…Fun?”

“Yeah.”

“Fun is not the word I’d use.”

“They’re scrappy,” Hailey said. “They hang around games they shouldn’t.”

“That’s because they’re bad,” Roxy shot back immediately. “That’s what bad teams do.”

“They still win some of them.”

“By accident.”

Hailey glanced at her.

“They’re still fun to watch.”

Roxy smirked.

“…Okay. We’re fixing that.”

“Fixing what?”

“You,” Roxy said. “You need football.”

Hailey didn’t react.

“Battlehawks,” Roxy continued. “That’s real chaos. Not whatever the Dragons are doing.”

“They made the playoffs.”

“And did what with it?”

Hailey didn’t answer that.

Roxy grinned.

“Exactly.”

They kept walking.

“…I watch Los Auras,” Hailey said again, like she was locking it in.

Roxy looked at her.

“You chose that?”

“Yeah.”

“You weren’t raised into it?”

“No.”

Roxy shook her head.

“That’s… weird.”

Hailey shrugged.

“They’re good.”

“They’re almost good,” Roxy said. “There’s a difference.”

Hailey glanced at her.

“They’re still good.”

Roxy pointed at her as they walked.

“Oh, we’re doing this.”

“Doing what?”

“This,” Roxy said, gesturing between them. “Orlando versus Los Auras.”

Hailey considered it for exactly one step.

“…Alright.”

Roxy grinned.

“Alright?”

“…but don’t complain when you lose.”

Roxy laughed quietly.

“Please. Orlando’s built for chaos.”

“So is losing,” Hailey said flatly.

Roxy looked at her-

Then laughed again.

“Okay, that was good.”

“I know.”

They slowed as they reached another classroom door. Students inside, teacher not yet.

Roxy checked her schedule quickly.

“…This is me.”

Hailey nodded.

“Yeah.”

A brief pause.

Not awkward. Just new.

Roxy shifted slightly.

“So… detention later?”

Hailey smirked faintly.

“Try not to get more first.”

“No promises.”

“I figured.”

Roxy hesitated, then-

“Hey. Thanks.”

Hailey shrugged.

“Don’t make me regret it.”

Roxy smiled-

Then pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Hailey watched for half a second-

Then kept walking.

Same hallway.

Same rules.

…but now-

Not entirely alone.

They didn’t make it far before the hallway opened up into a set of double doors.

Hailey pushed one open.

Warm air hit them immediately.

Outside, the courtyard sat in that in-between state- too structured to be wild, too open to ever feel fully controlled. Tables scattered across the concrete, a few trees trying their best, students clustering wherever they could claim space.

…and then-

Noise.

Not normal noise.

Sharp. Panicked. Loud.

Roxy’s head snapped toward it.

“…Is that-”

“Yeah,” Hailey said, already turning. “That’s my sister.”

Across the courtyard, a small crowd had formed.

At the center-

Tasha.

Standing on top of a table.

Swinging her bag like a weapon.

At-

A pterodactyl.

Not massive, but big enough to be a problem. Wings snapping, beak clicking, pacing in short, agitated bursts across the table and benches.

…and beneath the table-

A guy.

Curled in on himself.

Hiding.

Roxy blinked.

“…What am I looking at?”

“Tasha,” Hailey said flatly.

“That explains nothing.”

They moved closer.

“Back off!” Tasha snapped, swinging her bag again as the pterodactyl hopped forward, wings flaring.

The guy under the table whimpered.

“I didn’t know it would stay!”

“You said you could tame it!” Tasha shot back.

“I thought I could!”

Hailey stopped a few steps short, arms loosely at her sides.

“…Yeah, that tracks.”

Roxy looked between them.

“…He did what?”

“He tried to impress her,” Hailey said. “Happens.”

“With a pterodactyl?”

“With something stupid,” Hailey corrected. “This is just the version we got.”

The pterodactyl snapped its beak again, darting toward the table leg.

Tasha kicked at it.

“Go away!”

It didn’t.

It lingered.

Circling.

Focused.

Roxy’s expression shifted- not fear, not panic.

Recognition.

“…It smells food.”

Hailey glanced at her.

“What?”

Roxy nodded toward the table.

“He had treats, didn’t he?”

From beneath the table, the guy raised a shaky hand.

“…I might have some left-”

“Of course you do,” Hailey muttered.

Roxy exhaled once, then stepped forward.

“Hey.”

Hailey’s head turned slightly.

“Roxy-”

…but Roxy was already moving.

Not rushed.

Not aggressive.

Just… direct.

She approached the table slowly, eyes on the pterodactyl.

The creature turned toward her, head tilting, wings twitching.

Tasha paused mid-swing.

“…You sure about this?”

“No sudden movements,” Roxy said calmly.

That wasn’t directed at Tasha.

Or the guy.

It was directed at the situation.

At the air itself.

Roxy stopped a few feet away.

Lowered her shoulders.

Softened her posture.

“Hey,” she said again, quieter now.

The pterodactyl stilled.

Just enough.

Roxy tilted her head slightly, mirroring it.

“You’re not getting anything else here.”

The creature clicked its beak.

Shifted.

Roxy didn’t flinch.

“You already got fed,” she continued, voice steady. “That’s it.”

A small step forward.

Controlled.

Measured.

The pterodactyl fluttered its wings once-

Then settled.

Watching her.

Roxy made a small, dismissive motion with her hand.

“Go on.”

Another beat.

Then-

The pterodactyl let out a sharp cry, spread its wings, and launched upward-

Air snapping as it lifted-

Then gone, clearing the courtyard in a few powerful strokes.

Silence hit like a reset.

Tasha slowly lowered her bag.

The guy crawled out from under the table, staring upward.

“…What.”

Roxy turned back like nothing had happened.

“Don’t feed them,” she said simply.

The guy nodded rapidly.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay. Noted.”

Tasha hopped down from the table, eyes locked on Roxy.

“…Who are you?”

“Roxy.”

Tasha looked at Hailey.

“You didn’t tell me she could do that.”

Hailey shrugged.

“I didn’t know.”

Tasha turned back.

“That was insane.”

Roxy shrugged it off.

“In Orlando, you get worse.”

That landed.

The guy blinked.

“…Worse than that?”

Roxy nodded.

“Yeah.”

Tasha crossed her arms, impressed despite herself.

“…Okay, I like you.”

Hailey exhaled quietly.

“Yeah,” she said. “That makes sense.”

Roxy adjusted her bag like the whole thing had been a minor inconvenience.

“Come on,” she said, glancing back toward the building. “I still need to find my class.”

Hailey nodded once.

“Yeah.”

They turned and headed back toward the doors.

Behind them, the courtyard noise slowly returned—louder now, more animated, the story already spreading.

…and just ahead-

The hallway waited again.

Same rules.

Same system.

…but now-

Roxy wasn’t just the new girl anymore.

Chapter 4

La Rubi del Sol

La Rubi del Sol sat on the edge of the school district’s orbit- close enough to catch the student traffic, far enough to feel like an adult space pretending not to notice them.

It was a narrow café, sunlit in the front, darker toward the back where the booths were worn just enough to suggest history rather than neglect. The espresso machine hissed like it had opinions. The smell of coffee cut clean through everything else.

Nicky was already halfway through his second cup.

He sat slouched, one arm draped over the back of the chair like he owned the place- or at least owed it money. His Peace jacket hung loose, unzipped, like even he wasn’t fully committed to wearing it.

Which, in a way, he wasn’t.

“They still figuring that out?” Oscar asked from behind the counter, not even looking up as he wiped down the same spot for the third time.

Nicky exhaled.

“Yeah.”

“That’s not a good ‘yeah.’”

“It’s a Peace ‘yeah,’” Nicky replied. “Which means nobody knows, but everyone’s pretending they do.”

Oscar snorted.

“So you’re still in?”

“Technically.”

“…and practically?”

Nicky took a sip.

“…They’re deciding how useful I am.”

That got a look.

Oscar finally glanced up.

“…and?”

Nicky shrugged.

“Half paperwork. Half… performance review.”

Oscar leaned on the counter.

“That bad?”

Nicky didn’t answer right away.

He didn’t need to.

Oscar nodded slowly.

“Ah.”

From a nearby table, Carina Ellison looked up from her tablet.

“They wouldn’t keep you around if you were useless.”

Nicky didn’t even turn.

“You’d be surprised what organizations will keep around.”

Jama “Qashinka” Warsame sat in the corner, carefully stirring his tea with the kind of precision that suggested it mattered.

“They will keep you,” Jama said calmly, “until they decide you are a liability.”

A beat.

“That is when the paperwork becomes very efficient.”

Oscar pointed at him.

“See? That’s what I’m saying.”

Carina frowned slightly.

“That’s not helpful.”

“It’s accurate,” Jama replied.

Nicky raised his cup slightly toward Jama.

“Appreciate the honesty.”

Carina sighed, leaning back in her chair.

“You could at least pretend this is temporary.”

Nicky finally glanced over.

“I am pretending.”

Before Carina could respond-

The TV above the counter clicked louder.

A news alert.

Oscar grabbed the remote, instinctively raising the volume.

On screen-

A familiar face.

Polished. Confident. Framed like he knew exactly how to sell whatever came next.

“-and today,” the broadcaster said, “RUWS President Ron Ruggle is announcing what his administration is calling a ‘transformational tourism initiative’ for the San Padres region-”

Nicky groaned immediately.

“Oh no.”

Carina straightened.

“What?”

Oscar muted himself mid-wipe, eyes locked on the screen.

Ruggle stepped up to the podium, smiling like he’d already won the argument.

“We are proud to announce,” he began, “the development of a world-class dinosaur sanctuary and resort in San Padres-”

Oscar blinked.

“…Of course he is.”

“-a hybrid facility combining ecological research, conservation, and tourism infrastructure-”

Jama stopped stirring his tea.

That was how you knew something was serious.

Nicky leaned back, shaking his head.

“He saw Orlando and said, ‘yeah, I want that.’”

On screen, Ruggle continued, gesturing toward a glossy rendering- lush greenery, elevated walkways, viewing platforms, sleek buildings nestled beside massive reptilian silhouettes.

“It will create jobs,” Ruggle said, “drive international tourism, and position San Padres as a global leader in responsible dinosaur integration-”

Oscar pointed at the screen.

“That thing’s gonna poop on me.”

Carina blinked.

“…What?”

“Pterodactyl,” Oscar clarified. “You saw what happened outside the school? Now imagine that, but… bigger…and richer.”

Nicky snorted into his cup.

“That’s your concern?”

“That’s a valid concern,” Oscar shot back.

Jama set his spoon down carefully.

“My concern,” he said, voice calm but firm, “is that existing infrastructure is not designed for… dinosaur output.”

Oscar looked at him.

“…Dinosaur output.”

“Yes.”

Nicky nodded.

“He means poop.”

“I mean waste systems,” Jama corrected. “Sanitation. Flow capacity. Load tolerance.”

A beat.

“…and also poop.”

Carina pressed her lips together, trying not to smile.

On screen, Ruggle was still talking- words like innovation, growth, future rolling out like they’d been rehearsed a hundred times.

Nicky gestured vaguely at the TV.

“You build something like that, something gets out.”

Carina frowned.

“They said it’s a sanctuary.”

“They always say that,” Nicky replied. “Then something breaks, something slips, something gets lazy- next thing you know there’s a T-Rex in traffic.”

Oscar pointed at him.

“See? That’s worse than poop.”

Jama nodded once.

“Both are unacceptable.”

Carina shook her head.

“You’re all assuming it fails.”

Nicky looked at her.

“It will fail.”

“That’s not guaranteed.”

“It’s implied.”

Carina crossed her arms.

“It could work.”

That got looks.

Not hostile.

Just… skeptical.

Carina held her ground.

“Tourism brings money,” she said. “More people, more traffic, more business. That helps places like this.”

She gestured lightly around La Rubi.

Oscar raised an eyebrow.

“You think dinosaur tourists are coming here for coffee?”

“They might,” Carina insisted. “If the area grows-”

Nicky cut in, not harsh, just direct.

“Or they stay inside the resort.”

That stopped her.

A beat.

Carina exhaled.

“…Yeah.”

She leaned back slightly.

“I know.”

The optimism didn’t vanish.

…but it adjusted.

“I just…” she added quietly, “want it to be good for something.”

Silence settled for a moment.

On screen, applause.

Ruggle smiling.

The promise of something big.

Something controlled.

Something profitable.

Nicky finished his coffee.

“Yeah,” he said.

“That’s how they sell it.”

Oscar clicked the TV volume down again.

Jama picked up his tea.

Carina looked back at her tablet- but wasn’t really reading it.

Outside, the world kept moving.

Inside-

They all sat with the same thought, just framed differently:

This was either going to work.

Or it was going to become everyone else’s problem.

Oscar wiped the counter again, slower this time.

“…District 8’s already filling up,” he said.

Nicky glanced over.

“Yeah?”

“New families. Fast turnover.”

A beat.

“Couple weird ones too.”

Carina looked up.

“Weird how?”

Oscar shrugged.

“Different.”

A beat.

“Family with two wives.”

Nicky raised an eyebrow.

“…Yeah, that’s different.”

Jama stirred his tea.

“El Requeson attracts people who don’t fit elsewhere.”

Oscar nodded toward the window.

“Reporter too. Just moved in. Iris of the Gulf.”

Carina blinked.

“That fast?”

“They move faster than we do,” Oscar said. “That’s how they survive.”

The door opened.

No one rushed to look.

They didn’t need to.

You always felt it when someone new walked into La Rubi.

She stepped in quietly.

Dark clothes. Clean, but worn like she didn’t care how they looked after that.

Eyes scanning- not nervous.

Evaluating.

Raven.

She didn’t hesitate.

Didn’t linger at the entrance.

Just moved to the far end of the counter and sat.

Oscar glanced once.

That was enough.

Carina approached.

“What can I get you?”

Raven didn’t look up immediately.

“…Coffee.”

“Anything in it?”

“No.”

Carina nodded and moved.

Silence followed her.

Not awkward.

Just… space.

Nicky leaned slightly toward Oscar.

“…New?”

Oscar nodded once.

“Yeah.”

Jama didn’t look up.

“Not from here.”

“No,” Oscar said. “Definitely not.”

Carina set the coffee down in front of Raven.

Raven gave a small nod.

Didn’t say thank you.

…but didn’t ignore her either.

That was enough.

Raven took a sip.

Didn’t flinch.

Carina lingered a second longer than usual.

“Let me know if you need anything.”

Raven nodded again.

Time passed.

Not long.

Just enough.

Nicky spoke—casual, not pushing.

“You just move in?”

Raven didn’t look at him.

“…Yeah.”

“District 8?”

A small pause.

Then:

“…Yeah.”

Oscar glanced over.

Clocked that.

Jama finally looked up.

“Busy place right now.”

Raven gave the smallest hint of a reaction.

“…I noticed.”

Another pause.

Carina slid a small plate down the counter.

On the house.

Didn’t announce it.

Raven looked at it.

Then at Carina.

“…I didn’t order that.”

Carina shrugged.

“You don’t have to.”

A beat.

Raven hesitated.

Not suspicious.

Just… unused to it.

Then she pulled the plate slightly closer.

Didn’t smile.

Didn’t thank her.

…but she stayed.

Oscar went back to wiping the counter.

Slower now.

Nicky leaned back again.

“…You picked a good place.”

Raven took another sip.

“…We’ll see.”

A small pause settled again.

Not uncomfortable.

Just… waiting to see what she would do.

Raven took another sip.

Set the cup down.

Then-

“…Raven…my name’s Raven.”

That got a few looks.

Nicky nodded.

“Nicky.”

He didn’t offer more.

Didn’t need to.

Carina gave a small smile.

“Carina.”

Oscar didn’t introduce himself.

He just nodded once.

That counted.

Jama inclined his head slightly.

Raven glanced between them.

Weighed something.

Then:

“…I’m working over at the King’s Harem.”

No apology.

…but not quite defiant either.

Just… stated.

A beat.

Nicky shrugged.

“Okay.”

Carina didn’t blink.

“Good place to start.”

Oscar wiped the counter.

“Work’s work.”

Jama lifted his cup.

“Honest exchange,” he said. “Nothing to be ashamed of.”

Raven watched them.

Carefully.

“…Most places don’t say that.”

Carina leaned lightly on the counter.

“Most places aren’t here.”

A small pause.

Raven looked down at her coffee.

Then back up.

“…Alright.”

Not acceptance.

Not fully.

…but closer.

She took another sip.

…and stayed.

Axolotl Acres Motel

Axolotl Acres Motel wasn’t trying to impress anyone.

It didn’t need to.

It sat just off the main road like it had always been there and always would be- sun-faded sign, uneven pavement, and a row of doors that had seen more stories than maintenance logs.

Inside Room 12-

Ross “Red” McCrain stood over a small refrigerator that had clearly lost the will to function.

The back panel was open.

Wires exposed.

And wrapped- liberally- in duct tape.

Red leaned back, hands on his hips, admiring the work.

“There,” he said. “Good as new.”

Behind him, the patron- a middle-aged man in a wrinkled shirt- stared at the fridge like it might file a complaint.

“…You sure about that?”

Red nodded confidently.

“Oh yeah.”

He gave the side of the fridge a firm pat.

It hummed.

Not strongly.

Not convincingly.

…but… it hummed.

Red smiled wider.

“See? That’s a working sound.”

The man squinted.

“That doesn’t sound like a working sound.”

“That’s because you’re used to factory sounds,” Red explained. “This here is a custom solution.”

From the doorway, Alvarito leaned against the frame, arms crossed, watching the exchange with practiced patience.

“Dad,” he said, “you used tape on the compressor.”

Red turned slightly.

“Correction- strategically reinforced the compressor.”

“That’s not-”

“Alvarito,” Red cut in, calm but firm, “if the women don’t find you handsome, they should at least find you handy.”

The patron blinked.

“…What?”

Alvarito sighed.

“It’s a whole thing.”

Red gave the fridge one last approving nod.

“This’ll hold.”

“For how long?” the patron asked.

Red considered it.

“…Depends.”

“On what?”

“How much you believe in it.”

The man stared at him.

Alvarito pushed off the doorframe.

“We’re gonna go now.”

Red gave a friendly wave.

“Enjoy the cold.”

They stepped out into the walkway, the door closing behind them.

A beat.

Then-

“Two days,” Alvarito said.

“Three,” Red countered.

“That thing is not making it to tomorrow night.”

Red shook his head.

“Lack of faith, son.”

“Lack of refrigeration, Dad.”

They walked back toward the front office.

Inside, Faadumo stood behind the desk, posture straight, expression composed, a ledger open in front of her. The quiet authority of someone who actually kept the place running.

She looked up as they entered.

“You fixed it?”

Red nodded.

“Of course.”

Faadumo’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“…Did you fix it, or did you ‘fix’ it?”

Red smiled.

“I improved it.”

Alvarito muttered, “It’s held together by optimism and duct tape.”

Faadumo closed the ledger gently.

“I will prepare for a complaint.”

“That’s just good management,” Red said.

She gave him a look.

Then, softer:

“There is news.”

Red leaned casually on the counter.

“That sounds serious.”

“RUWS is building a dinosaur resort,” Faadumo said.

Alvarito blinked.

“…Another one?”

“In San Padres.”

Red nodded slowly.

“Ah. Copying Orlando.”

“That is what it sounds like.”

Alvarito shook his head.

“Man, we can’t even keep motel fridges running and they’re out here building dinosaur parks.”

Red pointed at him.

“That fridge is running.”

“For now.”

Faadumo folded her hands.

“It could bring more people through here,” she said. “Tourists traveling, workers coming in, suppliers…”

Red considered it.

“Yeah,” he said. “Could.”

Alvarito tilted his head.

“Or they stay inside the resort and never leave.”

“That also could,” Red admitted.

Faadumo didn’t argue.

…but she didn’t fully concede either.

“There is always some spillover,” she said. “People get curious. They explore.”

Red nodded slowly.

“Yeah. Some do.”

A pause.

Not pessimistic.

Just… measured.

Then Faadumo shifted.

Faadumo folded her hands gently on the counter.

“Family dinner is this weekend.”

Red straightened a little.

“Already?”

“Yes.”

She looked between them.

“I would like everyone there.”

Alvarito nodded.

“I’ll be there.”

Faadumo’s eyes moved to Red.

“…and Nicky.”

Red didn’t hesitate.

“He’ll come.”

“You think so?”

“He’s here now,” Red said. “El Requeson’s not far. He’ll show.”

That part felt solid.

Grounded.

Real.

Faadumo allowed herself a small nod.

“…and Thomas.”

The air shifted.

Not loudly.

…but enough.

Red didn’t answer right away this time.

Alvarito noticed.

Faadumo didn’t look away.

“He is still your son,” she said.

Red exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Yeah.”

A beat.

“…but he’s not… here.”

Faadumo’s expression tightened.

“He could be.”

Red shook his head- not dismissive, not angry.

Certain.

“No. He could visit.”

That landed harder than anything he’d said before.

Alvarito glanced between them.

Faadumo held her ground.

“I set a place for him every time.”

“I know you do.”

“…and one day-”

Red let out a small breath through his nose.

“Faadumo…”

He searched for the right words.

Didn’t quite find them.

So he defaulted.

“He’s busy,” he said. “Important. Big man now. Probably eating somewhere with better cooking.”

The joke landed.

…but not cleanly.

Faadumo gave him a look.

Sharp.

Because she heard what he wasn’t saying.

Alvarito heard it too.

Red shifted slightly, the humor already fading.

“He’s got… things,” Red added, quieter. “Stuff that doesn’t just… stop.”

Faadumo’s voice softened- but didn’t yield.

“Family should not have to compete with ‘things.’”

Red nodded.

“You’re right.”

Another beat.

“…but his kind of things don’t ask permission.”

Silence settled.

Not angry.

Just… understood.

Faadumo looked down briefly at the ledger.

Then closed it.

“We will set the place,” she said.

Red nodded.

“Yeah.”

Of course they would.

Alvarito leaned lightly against the counter.

“He knows where we are,” he said.

Faadumo looked at him.

“Yes.”

Red didn’t add anything.

Because that was the part none of them argued about.

Thomas knew.

…and that somehow made it worse.

She closed the ledger again.

“We will set it anyway.”

Red nodded.

“Yeah.”

Of course they would.

Because some things weren’t about probability.

They were about keeping the space open-

Just in case.

Axolotl Acres Convenience Store

The Axolotl Acres Convenience Store had a rhythm to it.

Not a fast one.

Not even a particularly productive one.

But a rhythm.

Bartolo “Bart” Carbajal stood halfway down aisle three with a clipboard, counting inventory with the quiet determination of a man who knew if he didn’t do it, nobody would.

“…six… seven… eight…”

He paused.

Looked again.

“…seven.”

Adjusted the number.

Moved on.

At the front counter, Wanda stood with arms folded, watching Rico.

Rico held a broom.

Not using it.

Just… holding it.

“…I’m telling you,” Rico said, leaning slightly on the handle, “this dinosaur thing? It’s gonna be good for business.”

Wanda didn’t blink.

“You say that about everything.”

“Yeah, and sometimes I’m right.”

“When?”

Rico opened his mouth.

Paused.

“…That time with the soda machine.”

“It broke.”

“People came in to complain,” Rico countered. “That’s traffic.”

Wanda stared at him.

“That is not the same thing.”

Rico shrugged.

“Traffic is traffic.”

Bart kept counting.

“…twelve… thirteen…”

Wanda gestured vaguely toward the TV mounted in the corner, muted but still showing looping footage of the San Padres announcement.

“You think tourists are gonna stop here?” she asked. “On their way to a controlled dinosaur park?”

“Why not?” Rico said. “They get curious. They wander. Boom- snacks.”

“Or,” Wanda replied, “they stay inside the resort where everything is clean and expensive.”

Rico leaned in slightly.

“People get bored of clean.”

“They do not get bored of safe.”

Rico considered that.

“…Okay, some people do.”

The bell above the door jingled.

Nicky walked in.

Didn’t hesitate.

Didn’t look around.

Straight to the back wall.

Bart glanced up.

“…Hey.”

Nicky gave a half-nod.

“Yeah.”

…and kept walking.

Rico lowered his voice slightly.

“That guy looks like he’s here for something specific.”

Wanda didn’t look away from Nicky.

“He always is.”

Nicky reached the liquor shelf.

Paused.

Then started grabbing bottles.

One.

Two.

Three.

Didn’t check labels.

Didn’t compare.

Just…took.

Bart slowly lowered his clipboard.

“…Oh boy.”

Nicky came back up to the counter with a solid lineup.

Wanda raised an eyebrow.

“That’s a lot.”

Nicky set the bottles down with a dull clink.

“Yeah.”

Bart stepped closer, eyeing the pile.

“You stocking up for winter or something?”

Nicky didn’t look at him.

“Something like that.”

Bart tapped his clipboard lightly.

“You know we sell these individually, right?”

That got Nicky’s attention.

He looked up.

Not angry.

…but there was edge there.

“Bart.”

Bart froze just slightly.

“Mind your business.”

Not loud.

Not explosive.

…but it landed.

Clean.

Bart raised his hands a little.

“Alright. Just saying-”

“I know what you’re saying,” Nicky cut in, “and I’m saying I got it handled.”

A beat.

Then Nicky’s tone shifted just enough to take the edge off.

“I’m paying for it, aren’t I?”

Wanda stepped in smoothly.

“Yeah,” she said. “You are.”

She started ringing it through.

The scanner beeped steadily.

Rico leaned over slightly, curious.

“You celebrating something?”

Nicky glanced at him.

“Yeah.”

“What?”

Nicky paused.

Just long enough to make it unclear if he was joking.

“Being left alone.”

Rico blinked.

“…Fair.”

Wanda didn’t comment.

She finished scanning.

Then, casually:

“You going to the family dinner?”

Nicky hesitated.

Not long.

Just enough.

“…I’m here,” he said. “I guess I should.”

Wanda nodded.

“That would be nice.”

Nicky didn’t respond to that.

He grabbed the bag- heavy now- and slung it over his shoulder.

“Yeah.”

…and turned.

“Later.”

The bell jingled again as he left.

Silence lingered for a moment.

Then-

Bart exhaled.

“…That’s a lot of liquor.”

“Yeah,” Wanda said.

Rico nodded.

“He’s got something going on.”

Bart gave him a look.

“You think?”

Rico shrugged.

“I observe things.”

Wanda leaned on the counter.

“You do not act on them.”

“Different skill set.”

Bart shook his head, turning back toward his clipboard-

Then stopped.

He looked toward the door.

Then back at Rico.

“…Rico.”

“Yeah?”

“You didn’t charge that last guy for the chips, did you?”

Rico froze.

Just a little.

“…Define ‘charge.’”

Wanda closed her eyes briefly.

“Rico.”

“He said he’d come back!” Rico protested. “It’s an honour system thing-”

“This is not an honour system store,” Bart said, firm but tired.

Wanda pointed at the register.

“That is why we have that.”

Rico looked between them.

“He seemed honest.”

“They all seem honest,” Bart replied. “Until they’re not.”

Rico shifted, finally putting the broom to the floor- lightly sweeping nothing.

“…Okay.”

A beat.

“…My bad.”

Wanda nodded once.

“Thank you.”

Bart returned to his clipboard.

“…eight… nine…”

Paused.

Looked again.

“…eight.”

Adjusted it.

The rhythm resumed.

Not efficient.

Not perfect.

…but consistent.

Just like everything else at Axolotl Acres.

Chapter 5

Zasaramel’s House, El Requeson

The uniform still looked new.

Not just clean- untouched. Pressed flat, lines sharp enough to feel official. Joanna had washed it twice the night before, then stood over the ironing board like she was preparing him for inspection.

Now she circled Arel-Sin with her phone, smiling like she’d discovered something miraculous.

“Hold still- no, no, don’t slouch- look at you.”

Click.

“Zas, look at him. He’s adorable.”

Arel-Sin stared straight ahead, jaw tight. He didn’t move. He didn’t argue. He just endured it.

“I’m not adorable,” he muttered.

“You are,” Joanna said immediately. “This is illegal levels of cute.”

Click.

Ruby leaned against the wall, arms folded, watching the whole thing play out.

“He’s a teenager,” she said.

“I know,” Joanna replied, already stepping closer for another picture. “That doesn’t change anything.”

“It should,” Ruby said.

“It won’t.”

Click.

Arel-Sin exhaled through his nose.

Zasaramel stood near the doorway, quiet, arms loosely folded. He wasn’t watching the phone. He wasn’t even really watching Joanna.

He was watching Arel-Sin.

Measuring.

Not the uniform. Not the moment.

Whether he was ready.

“You packed your books?” Zas asked.

Arel-Sin nodded once.

“You know your schedule?”

Another nod.

Zas gave a small, satisfied hum. That mattered more than anything Joanna was doing.

“Okay, one more,” Joanna said.

“No-”

Too late.

She stepped in and pulled him into a tight hug, squeezing him with full, unapologetic affection.

“There,” she said. “Perfect.”

Arel-Sin didn’t hug back at first.

Then, reluctantly, he did.

Watcher barked before any of them heard the bus.

Sharp. Certain. Already at the door.

“That’s him,” Ruby said.

Arel-Sin grabbed his bag.

The moment shifted.

Joanna’s smile softened. Ruby straightened. Zas stepped forward.

Arel-Sin hugged his father first.

Zas held him briefly- firm, steady, nothing dramatic.

“Do the work,” he said quietly.

“I will.”

Then Ruby.

Quick, familiar. Easy.

Joanna last.

She didn’t hold back this time. Arms tight around him, a little too long, a little too much.

“Text me when you get there,” she said.

“I don’t need to-”

“Text me anyway.”

“…okay.”

She let him go, but only after one last squeeze.

They watched him walk out.

Watcher stayed at the door, tail stiff, still alert.

The bus idled outside, loud and indifferent.

Arel-Sin climbed on without looking back.

The door folded shut.

The bus pulled away.

Joanna exhaled like she’d been holding it in all morning.

Ruby nudged her lightly.

“You’re going to embarrass him.”

“I already did.”

Zasaramel didn’t say anything.

He just watched the street a moment longer, then turned back inside.

The bus disappeared around the corner.

For a moment, none of them moved.

Watcher finally relaxed, stepping back from the door as if his job was done.

Joanna let out a breath, watching the empty street.

“He’s growing up too fast.”

Zasaramel glanced at her.

“…You’ve known him three years.”

Joanna looked at him, unbothered.

“…and in those three years,” she said, “he went from a kid to… that.”

She gestured vaguely toward where the bus had been.

“I still saw it.”

Zas held her gaze for a second.

Then nodded.

“…Yeah.”

Ruby leaned lightly against the wall, arms folded.

“He’s a good kid.”

Zas’s expression softened, just slightly.

“He does what he’s supposed to.”

That, to him, meant everything.

They stepped back into the house.

It still didn’t feel finished.

Boxes stacked along the walls. Half-open. Some labeled, some not. The kind of order that only made sense while you were still unpacking.

Joanna picked one up, set it down somewhere else, then immediately forgot why she moved it.

Ruby opened another, glanced inside, closed it again.

Zas stood in the middle of the room for a moment, looking around.

Not overwhelmed.

Just… assessing.

His eyes landed on the scythe, still leaning carefully against the wall where he’d placed it the night before.

He hadn’t decided where it belonged yet.

That bothered him more than the boxes.

Joanna followed his gaze.

“You’re not hanging that in the living room.”

Zas didn’t look away.

“It’s part of the house.”

“It’s a weapon.”

“It’s both.”

Ruby raised an eyebrow.

“Put it somewhere the kids can’t reach.”

“They won’t touch it.”

“That’s not the point,” Ruby said.

Zas considered that.

Didn’t argue.

A quiet settled over the room.

Not uncomfortable.

Just… new.

Joanna glanced around.

“…Do you think this was the right move?”

It hung there.

Zas didn’t answer right away.

He walked over to one of the boxes, adjusted it slightly so it sat flush against the wall. Small correction. Controlled.

Then:

“I can afford it now.”

Practical. First answer.

“WFE contract helps.”

Ruby nodded.

“That’s not what she asked.”

Zas exhaled lightly.

“…Cleveland was getting cold,” he said. “Not just winter.”

Joanna tilted her head.

“You liked Cleveland.”

“I still do.”

A beat.

“…but I was getting tired of it.”

That was as close as he’d get to admitting it.

Ruby leaned against the counter.

“The house is fine there?”

Zas nodded.

“Good hands.”

“With your wrestler friend?”

“IWC,” Zas corrected automatically. “He’s responsible.”

Ruby smirked.

“For a wrestler?”

Zas didn’t react.

That answer was enough.

Joanna looked back toward the door again, like she could still see the bus.

“…It’s different here.”

“Yeah,” Ruby said.

Zas didn’t disagree.

His phone buzzed.

He glanced at the screen.

“…Carney.”

Joanna perked up immediately.

“Oh, that’s trouble.”

Zas answered.

“What.”

No greeting.

Just Zas.

A pause as he listened.

Then:

“This weekend?”

Another pause.

He looked at Ruby. Then Joanna.

“Baseball.”

That got both of them.

Joanna lit up.

“Oh- yes.”

Ruby straightened.

“Who’s playing?”

Zas listened again.

“Buffalo. Against Los Auras.”

Joanna didn’t hesitate.

“We’re going.”

Zas lowered the phone slightly.

“I don’t-”

“We’re going,” Ruby repeated.

Joanna was already nodding.

“Family outing. First one here. It’s perfect.”

Zas looked between them.

Considered.

Then put the phone back to his ear.

“…We’ll be there.”

He hung up.

Silence for half a second.

Then Joanna clapped once, energized again.

“Okay- now I’m excited.”

Ruby smirked.

“You weren’t before?”

“I was stressed before.”

She looked around at the boxes.

“Now I’m stressed and excited.”

Zas glanced once more at the scythe.

Still leaning against the wall.

Still not placed.

He left it there.

For now.

 

A knock at the door.

Watcher was up instantly.

Not aggressive.

Alert.

Zas was already moving before the second knock came.

He opened the door.

Two people stood outside.

Relaxed posture. Casual clothes. No uniforms.

…but something about them still read… official.

The man spoke first.

“Nipâwihkân Chibougamau. Call me Nippy.”

The woman beside him gave a small nod.

“Karen McMurdoo.”

A beat.

Then, almost casually:

“El Requeson Police.”

Zas didn’t move.

“…You’re here for what.”

Not hostile.

Just direct.

Karen smiled slightly.

“To say hi.”

That didn’t help.

Joanna appeared behind Zas, curious.

Ruby not far behind her.

Nippy raised his hands slightly- not defensive, just easing the space.

“We’re off duty,” he said. “No uniforms, no paperwork.”

Karen added:

“This is the neighborhood version of policing.”

Zas’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“…Police don’t usually do that.”

Karen shrugged.

“They should.”

Joanna stepped forward a bit, reading the room faster than Zas.

“You’re welcoming us?”

Nippy nodded.

“Exactly that.”

Karen gestured lightly toward the street.

“El Requeson’s not a ‘big bad city.’ Not if we can help it.”

A small beat.

“We’re community first. Badge second.”

Zas studied them.

Measured.

No visible weapons.

No tension.

No angle.

Just… people.

That unsettled him more than hostility would have.

Karen held up a box.

“Housewarming.”

Joanna’s eyes lit up immediately.

“Oh- what is it?”

Karen handed it over.

“A coffeemaker.”

Joanna opened the box halfway right there.

Her reaction was immediate.

“…This is way better than ours.”

Ruby leaned over her shoulder.

“Okay, yeah- that’s an upgrade.”

Zas glanced between them.

“You give gifts to everyone?”

Nippy shrugged.

“New families? Yeah.”

Karen added:

“Especially ones we think might stick.”

That landed.

Joanna smiled.

“Thank you. Seriously.”

Ruby gave a small nod.

“Yeah. That’s… actually really nice.”

Zas still wasn’t fully convinced.

“…and this isn’t a check.”

Karen shook her head.

“If it was, we’d say it.”

Nippy smirked slightly.

“…and we’d be wearing very different clothes.”

A small silence.

Then Karen shifted tone slightly—more informative now.

“You’ll hear about a couple places pretty quick.”

Zas listened.

“La Rubi,” she said.

Joanna immediately perked up again.

“I’ve heard of that.”

Karen smiled.

“You will.”

Nippy added:

“…and Axolotl Acres. Bit quieter. Different crowd.”

Ruby nodded.

“Good to know.”

Karen stepped back slightly.

“Station’s always open if you need anything.”

Nippy added:

“Or if you just want to say hi.”

Zas raised an eyebrow.

“…People do that?”

Karen:

“Some do.”

Nippy:

“Some don’t.”

A beat.

“Both are fine.”

They started to turn away.

Then Karen looked back once more.

“Welcome to El Requeson.”

Simple.

No weight behind it.

Which somehow gave it weight.

The door closed.

Silence again.

Joanna was already pulling the coffeemaker out of the box.

“Oh this is nice.”

Ruby laughed softly.

“We just got upgraded by the police.”

Zas stood still for a moment.

Thinking.

Then:

“…That was strange.”

Joanna didn’t look up.

“That was good strange.”

Ruby nodded.

“Yeah.”

Zas glanced toward the window.

Where Nippy and Karen were already halfway down the street.

Talking.

Laughing.

Normal.

He looked back into the house.

At the boxes.

At his family.

At the coffeemaker already being claimed.

At the scythe still leaning against the wall.

Unplaced.

“…We’ll see.”

Midday — Residential Street, El Requeson

Watcher moved like he owned the street.

Not aggressive.

Not hurried.

Just… certain.

Zas walked a half-step behind him, leash loose in his hand. More formality than control.

The neighborhood was quiet. Warm.

Alive in a way that didn’t feel loud.

Then Watcher veered.

Straight onto a front lawn.

Zas barely had time to register it.

“…Watcher-”

Too late.

Watcher stopped.

…and made himself very comfortable.

Zas exhaled slowly.

“…Of course you did.”

The front door slammed open.

“HEY.”

Zas didn’t even need to look yet.

“Get that damn animal off my lawn, jackass!”

Oscar.

Older.

Wire-thin.

Anger carrying him more than strength ever could.

He was already marching down the path, finger pointed like it was a weapon.

“You some kind of idiot or what?”

Zas finally turned.

Looked at him.

Measured.

Not impressed. Not threatened.

Just… tired.

Oscar kept coming.

“You think this is funny? You think you can just- what, walk in here and-”

He stepped closer.

Closer.

Too close.

“You wanna fight about it?”

Zas blinked once.

Not out of fear.

Out of calculation.

There it is.

The difference between them wasn’t subtle.

Zas was built like something that had survived war.

Oscar was built like something that had survived life.

The gap wasn’t just size.

It was gravity.

Zas sighed.

“…No.”

Simple.

Flat.

Not dismissive.

Just final. There was no fight here. Just noise.

Oscar didn’t back down.

Didn’t even hesitate.

“Then move your damn dog!”

Watcher, blissfully indifferent, finished his business.

Zas gave a small tug on the leash.

“Done.”

Watcher moved on like nothing had happened.

Oscar stepped closer again.

Still posturing.

Still pushing.

“You think you can just come in here and-”

“Dad.”

Both men turned.

Bartolo stood at the edge of the sidewalk.

Not rushing.

Not panicking.

Just… stepping in.

“Be nice.”

Oscar didn’t look at him.

“I am being nice.”

Bartolo gave him a look.

The kind that didn’t argue.

Just… waited.

A beat.

Oscar scoffed.

Turned away slightly.

Still simmering.

Bartolo walked over, stopping between them- not as a barrier, but as a presence.

“Sorry,” he said to Zas.

Small shrug.

“He gets like this.”

Zas didn’t respond immediately.

Still watching Oscar.

Still reading him.

Bartolo lowered his voice slightly.

“…Been like that since Mom.”

A beat.

“Emma.”

Zas’s expression shifted.

Just a fraction.

Enough.

Oscar stood there, back half-turned.

Not listening.

Or pretending not to.

Zas nodded once.

Slow.

Understanding something he didn’t need explained twice.

“…Right.”

Bartolo gave a small, apologetic smile.

“He lives alone now.”

Silence.

Not awkward.

Just… settled.

Zas looked at Oscar again.

Not as a problem.

As a pattern.

Then, calm:

“My door’s open.”

Oscar didn’t turn around.

Didn’t acknowledge it.

Didn’t need to.

…but he stopped talking.

Bartolo noticed.

Of course he did.

Zas gave a small nod.

Then walked on.

Watcher already halfway down the sidewalk, unconcerned with human drama.

Bartolo lingered a moment.

Then followed his father back toward the house.

Oscar paused at the door.

Just for a second.

Then went inside.

Zasaramel’s House

Watcher barked again.

Short. Recognizing.

Zas opened the door.

Oscar stood there.

Rigid. Not quite comfortable.

Bartolo stood just behind him, like he’d physically escorted him here.

A beat.

Oscar didn’t speak.

Bartolo did.

“…We’re here.”

Zas stepped aside.

“Come in.”

Bartolo entered immediately, like he’d already decided this was fine.

Oscar followed slower.

Measured.

Joanna was in the kitchen, mid-pour, a mug already full and another halfway there.

Ruby reached over and flipped the machine off.

“That’s enough.”

Joanna looked offended.

“It just got here.”

“You’ve had three.”

“I’m pacing myself.”

Ruby picked up the coffeemaker.

…and moved it out of reach.

Bartolo blinked.

“…I walked into something.”

Joanna turned, smiling.

“Welcome.”

Bartolo took a seat like he belonged there already, looking around with open curiosity.

“…So this is the new place.”

His eyes flicked between Joanna and Ruby.

Then back again.

“…I’m not gonna lie- that’s still weird to me.”

Joanna laughed lightly.

“We get that a lot.”

Ruby shrugged.

“It works.”

Joanna nodded.

“We love each other. That’s the part that matters.”

Bartolo considered that.

“…Fair enough.”

Oscar hadn’t sat down.

He was looking.

Not casually.

Studying the room.

The textiles.

The patterns.

The pieces that didn’t belong to this place- but were here anyway.

Then his eyes landed on it.

The scythe.

He stopped.

Bartolo followed his gaze.

“…Yeah, I was gonna ask.”

He leaned back slightly, deadpan as ever.

“You some kind of warrior or something?”

Zas didn’t answer immediately.

“…Something like that.”

Joanna lit up.

“Oh, don’t do that.”

Ruby smirked.

“He’s underselling it.”

Joanna stepped in, energized again.

“He was part of the Carnelian Blade.”

Bartolo’s expression shifted.

Just a little.

Recognition.

Oscar turned fully now.

For the first time, not looking at Zas as a problem.

Looking at him as something else.

Zas didn’t elaborate.

Didn’t posture.

Didn’t fill the silence.

Joanna did.

“He doesn’t talk about it much, but-”

“He survived it,” Ruby added.

That was the line that landed.

Oscar’s eyes stayed on the scythe.

Then, slowly:

“…Yeah.”

A beat.

“I know what that means.”

Everyone looked at him.

Oscar didn’t look back.

Still looking at the weapon.

Still somewhere else.

“When I was fourteen,” he said, “I lied about my age.”

Bartolo shifted slightly.

He’d heard this before.

…but not often.

“Joined up,” Oscar continued. “RUWS.”

A small pause.

“Central India.”

The room went quieter.

“Republic was falling apart,” he said. “Portugal had just pushed them back out of Goa.”

He shook his head slightly.

“Whole place was chaos.”

Zas watched him.

Not interrupting.

Not reacting.

Just… listening.

“I lasted a month.”

Oscar finally turned.

Looked at Zas directly.

“That was enough.”

A beat.

Then:

“…Couldn’t take it.”

Silence.

Not awkward.

Heavy.

Oscar nodded once.

Toward the scythe.

“…So yeah.”

Another beat.

“I know what that takes.”

Zas held his gaze.

Then gave a small nod.

Acknowledgment.

Nothing more.

Nothing needed.

Bartolo leaned forward slightly, breaking the weight just enough.

“…So you are some kind of warrior.”

Zas exhaled lightly.

“…Was.”

Joanna glanced at him.

Didn’t argue.

Ruby leaned back.

“Still counts.”

Oscar didn’t smile.

…but he didn’t argue either.

He finally sat down.

Bartolo leaned forward slightly.

“…So what’s it like? You know, the Blade.”

Zas didn’t answer right away.

He never did.

It was the question he got everywhere.

Not curiosity.

Not really.

Something else.

Something closer to:

Tell me something unbelievable.

Zas looked at Bartolo.

Then away.

“…It’s land.”

That was where he started.

Always.

“Hard land.”

A beat.

“It doesn’t care if you’re ready.”

Bartolo waited.

Oscar, too.

“It forces you to figure things out,” Zas continued. “Or it removes you.”

Simple.

Flat.

No drama.

Bartolo frowned slightly.

“That’s it?”

Zas shrugged.

“…That’s enough.”

A silence followed.

Not disappointment.

…but not satisfaction either.

Joanna stepped in.

Of course she did.

“I went there once.”

Zas didn’t react.

He never stopped her from telling that part.

Bartolo looked at her.

“You’re serious?”

She nodded.

“Early on in my relationship with him. I insisted.”

Ruby smirked slightly.

“She really did.”

Joanna leaned against the counter, thinking back.

“…It’s scary.”

No hesitation.

“No buildup. No trying to make it sound cool.”

She shook her head.

“It’s not for people who grew up in places like this.”

She gestured vaguely around them.

“RUWS. UCSS. Britain. Anywhere that pretends things are stable.”

Oscar’s attention sharpened.

“You think you know what ‘danger’ is,” Joanna continued. “Because you’ve seen it on a screen.”

She gave a small, humorless smile.

“You don’t.”

A beat.

“There are things that happen there…” she said, quieter now, “that don’t make sense anywhere else.”

She didn’t elaborate.

Didn’t need to.

“Not even the most outlandish movie gets close,” she added. “They always clean it up. Give it structure.”

Another small shake of her head.

“The Blade doesn’t care about structure.”

Zas shifted slightly.

Not disagreeing.

Just… listening.

Then Joanna’s tone changed.

Not softer.

Just… different.

“…but it’s not chaos.”

That landed.

Bartolo blinked.

“…It sounds like chaos.”

“It isn’t,” Joanna said. “It just doesn’t look like order you recognize.”

She looked at Zas for a second.

Then back at them.

“People build something anyway.”

A small pause.

“Not much.”

“…but enough.”

Ruby nodded.

“There’s a weird… honesty to it.”

Joanna exhaled.

“Yeah.”

“In a place that dark,” she said, “you notice the light more.”

Joanna was quiet for a moment.

Then:

“…We were in Jammu.”

Zas’s eyes shifted slightly.

He remembered the place.

“Not a real market,” Joanna said. “Not like here.”

“Tarps. Crates. People setting up and tearing down in the same hour.”

Bartolo leaned in.

“You could feel it,” she added. “Like… nobody trusted it would still be there tomorrow.”

A beat.

“There was a kid,” she said. “Maybe eight.”

“Running between stalls.”

Zas didn’t interrupt.

“He kept grabbing food,” Joanna continued. “Quick. Messy.”

“Not even trying to hide it properly.”

Oscar shifted slightly.

He knew that kind of hunger.

“At first, nobody stopped him,” Joanna said.

“Not because they didn’t see.”

“Because they did.”

A pause.

“Then one of the women caught him.”

Bartolo tensed a little.

“She didn’t hit him.”

Joanna shook her head.

“She sat him down. Right there. In the middle of everything.”

Noise in the background.

People moving.

Nobody stopping.

“She took what he stole,” Joanna said.

“Split it.”

“Gave half back.”

Bartolo frowned.

“…That’s it?”

Joanna nodded.

“Then she made him sit there while she cooked the rest properly.”

A beat.

“No speech,” Joanna said. “No warning.”

“No ‘don’t do this again.’”

“She just made him eat.”

Silence.

“…and after that,” she added, “he stopped.”

Bartolo blinked.

“…Why?”

Joanna looked at him.

“Because in a place where nobody owes you anything…”

A small pause.

“…someone did.”

Zas added quietly:

“…and made it clear he wasn’t invisible.”

Ruby nodded.

“That’s how people build something there.”

Oscar didn’t speak.

…but he didn’t look away either.

Bartolo leaned back slowly.

“…Okay.”

A beat.

“…Yeah, I’d read that.”

Zas gave him a look.

“What.”

Ruby smirked.

“We’ve told him that.”

Joanna nodded immediately.

“Multiple times.”

“You should write a book,” Ruby added. “Seriously.”

“With all the stories people already tell about you?” Joanna said. “At least make them accurate.”

Zas shook his head.

“No.”

Immediate.

Final.

Bartolo raised an eyebrow.

“Why not?”

Zas didn’t hesitate.

“…People don’t want truth.”

A beat.

“They want something they can repeat.”

Oscar gave a quiet grunt.

That part, he understood.

Bartolo leaned forward again.

“…I’d read the truth.”

Zas didn’t respond.

Bartolo added, almost offhand:

“…Plus, if you did it for something good-”

He shrugged.

“People would listen.”

Zas looked at him.

Not convinced.

Not dismissing it either.

Then, quietly:

“…Maybe.”

Joanna smiled.

She caught that.

The room settled again.

Not empty- just… full.

Bartolo leaned back.

“…Yeah, I don’t think we’re topping that.”

Oscar gave a small grunt.

“No.”

A beat.

Then Oscar spoke.

“I built La Rubi.”

Joanna blinked.

“…Wait, that La Rubi?”

Oscar nodded.

“From nothing.”

Zas looked at him differently now.

“Small place,” Oscar continued. “Didn’t look like much.”

“Didn’t feel like much either, at first.”

A pause.

“…but it worked.”

Ruby leaned forward slightly.

“…and now your daughter runs it, right?”

Oscar’s expression shifted.

Subtle.

…but real.

“Carina,” he said.

A beat.

“She made it better.”

That landed heavier than anything he’d said so far.

Zas nodded once.

Respect.

Oscar added, almost offhand:

“I still got one percent.”

Bartolo smirked.

“He means he eats for free.”

Oscar didn’t deny it.

Joanna laughed.

“That’s actually genius.”

Ruby nodded.

“Yeah, that’s a perfect deal.”

Bartolo shrugged.

“I run a convenience store.”

All eyes turned to him.

“Axolotl Acres,” he added. “Me and my wife.”

Joanna tilted her head.

“That’s… nice.”

“It’s fine,” Bartolo said. “Quiet. Predictable.”

A beat.

“…Mostly.”

Oscar snorted.

Bartolo glanced at him.

“…Don’t.”

Oscar ignored him.

“They’ve got a system,” he said.

Bartolo sighed.

“…Dad-”

Oscar pressed on.

“They like kids.”

Joanna perked up slightly.

“…and when they have them,” Oscar added, “they don’t always keep them.”

A small silence.

Bartolo rubbed the back of his neck.

“We work with adoption agencies,” he clarified. “Everything’s legal.”

Ruby nodded.

“That’s… actually really meaningful.”

Bartolo shrugged.

“It works for us.”

Joanna glanced at Ruby.

Then at Zas.

Then back at Ruby.

“…We could-”

“No,” Zas said immediately.

Ruby smirked.

“You didn’t even let her finish.”

“I know where it was going.”

Joanna grinned.

“I’m just saying- if you grew your hair and then put your hair up-”

Zas sighed.

“…No.”

Bartolo laughed quietly.

Oscar shook his head.

“Too much energy in this house.”

A beat.

Then Oscar’s tone shifted again.

“Rico.”

Bartolo’s expression changed instantly.

“…Yeah.”

Oscar leaned back slightly.

“He works the store.”

“‘Works’ is generous,” Bartolo muttered.

Oscar ignored that.

“No one else would hire him.”

Ruby frowned slightly.

“He’s got everything,” Oscar continued. “Beautiful wife. Two daughters.”

Bartolo nodded.

“They’re good kids.”

“Soccer,” Oscar added. “Both of them.”

“Really good,” Bartolo said.

A pause.

Oscar’s voice dropped just a little.

“…and he doesn’t see it.”

Silence.

“He thinks it’s all just… there,” Bartolo added. “Like it’ll stay that way no matter what.”

Zas listened.

Carefully.

Oscar shook his head.

“One day it won’t.”

That sat heavier than anything else in the room.

Bartolo exhaled.

“…We’ve tried talking to him.”

Oscar gave a dry laugh.

“He listens. Doesn’t hear.”

Zas finally spoke.

“Some people only learn when something’s gone.”

Oscar looked at him.

Held that.

“…Yeah.”

No argument.

No humor.

Just agreement.

They stood near the door again.

The visit had run its course.

Bartolo adjusted his jacket slightly.

“…Anyway.”

A glance at Oscar.

“We should go.”

Oscar nodded.

Didn’t look at anyone in particular.

Just… toward the door.

They stepped outside.

Zas followed, out of habit more than necessity.

A small pause on the porch.

Like no one quite wanted to be the one to end it.

Bartolo exhaled.

“…Rico.”

Zas didn’t respond immediately.

“He’s not a bad guy,” Bartolo added. “Just…”

He trailed off.

“Lazy,” Oscar said.

Flat. Certain.

Ruby leaned lightly against the doorframe.

“Or maybe he just hasn’t found his direction yet.”

Oscar shook his head.

“We’ve been trying to give him one.”

A beat.

“For years.”

Bartolo nodded.

“Nothing sticks.”

Silence.

Oscar looked at Zas now.

Direct.

Measured.

“You talk to him.”

Not a request.

Not quite a demand either.

Just… expectation.

Zas held his gaze.

Considered it.

“I can try.”

A beat.

“No miracles.”

Oscar gave a small grunt.

“That’s more than we’ve got.”

Bartolo gave a faint, grateful nod.

“That’s enough.”

Another pause.

Then-

Joanna stepped forward.

No warning.

No buildup.

She wrapped her arms around Oscar.

Oscar froze.

Completely.

Zas watched.

Didn’t intervene.

Bartolo blinked.

“…Oh.”

For a second, Oscar didn’t move at all.

Didn’t return it.

Didn’t pull away.

Just… stood there.

Then something shifted.

His shoulders dropped.

Just a little.

His arms came up.

Slowly.

Awkward at first.

Then tighter.

He exhaled.

Like something he’d been holding for a long time finally slipped.

Joanna didn’t say anything.

Didn’t need to.

Oscar didn’t let go.

A beat.

Then another.

Bartolo looked away slightly.

Gave him that space.

Zas stood still.

Watching.

Understanding exactly what this was.

Eventually-

Joanna eased back.

Not pulling away.

Just giving him the option.

Oscar didn’t take it immediately.

Then, finally, he stepped back.

Cleared his throat.

“…Yeah.”

Not a thank you.

Not an explanation.

Just… something.

Bartolo stepped in gently.

“Alright. Let’s go.”

Oscar nodded.

Once.

They turned.

Walked down the path.

This time, Oscar didn’t look angry.

Just… quieter.

Chapter 6

Catholic Academies of the North Temple, El Requeson District 8

The halls of the Academy always smelled faintly of polish and control.

Not cleanliness.

Control.

Arel-Sin noticed it immediately.

Not because it was new.

Because it was… deliberate.

Shoes echoed in rhythm.

Voices stayed low.

Everything moved like it had already been decided.

He adjusted his shirt.

Still tucked.

Still correct.

For now.

The uniform fit perfectly.

Of course it did.

Joanna had made sure of that.

Pressed lines. Clean collar. No excuses.

He lasted ten minutes.

By the time he reached the second corridor, he pulled the shirt loose.

Not dramatically.

Just enough.

Breathing felt easier.

That was all.

“Student.”

Arel-Sin stopped.

Didn’t turn immediately.

Then did.

An administrator.

Not angry.

Not loud.

Worse.

Precise.

“Your uniform.”

Arel-Sin looked down.

Then back up.

“…Yeah.”

“Fix it.”

A beat.

Arel-Sin didn’t move.

“I’m comfortable,” he said.

That was the mistake.

The administrator didn’t react outwardly.

…but something shifted.

“Comfort,” they said evenly, “is not the standard.”

A pause.

“Compliance is.”

The word sat there.

Heavy.

Arel-Sin exhaled slowly.

Then:

“…It’s just a shirt.”

Another mistake.

“Detention,” the administrator said.

Immediate.

Clean.

No escalation.

Arel-Sin blinked once.

“…For that?”

“Yes.”

A beat.

“Fix it.”

This time, he did.

Tucked.

Straightened.

Aligned.

Too late.

“End of day,” the administrator added. “Report to Room 3C.”

Then they were gone.

Like nothing had happened.

…but something had.

Across the hall-

Two girls had been watching.

Hailey leaned against a locker, arms folded.

Expression unreadable.

“…You lasted longer than most.”

Arel-Sin glanced at her.

Didn’t respond.

Roxy, beside her, was very much not unreadable.

“Oh, I like him,” she said immediately.

Hailey didn’t look at her.

“You like chaos.”

“Yeah,” Roxy said. “And that was quiet chaos.”

She stepped forward.

Closing the distance without hesitation.

“You just got here and already got detention?”

Arel-Sin looked at her.

Measured.

“…Apparently.”

Roxy grinned.

“Nice.”

Hailey pushed off the locker.

“It’s not nice,” she said. “It’s how they get you.”

Arel-Sin looked between them.

“…For a shirt?”

Hailey shrugged.

“It’s never just the shirt.”

Roxy tilted her head.

“What’s your name?”

Arel-Sin hesitated.

Then:

“…Arel-Sin.”

Roxy’s grin widened.

“Okay, that’s a cool name.”

Hailey nodded once.

“Yeah.”

A beat.

“I’m Hailey.”

“Roxy.”

Roxy gestured lightly at his now-perfect uniform.

“You gonna survive the rest of the day?”

Arel-Sin glanced down.

Then back up.

“…We’ll see.”

Roxy laughed.

“Yeah. I definitely like him.”

Hailey shook her head slightly.

…but there was the smallest hint of a smile.

The bell rang.

Everything snapped back into motion.

Students moved.

Lines reformed.

Voices dropped.

System restored.

Arel-Sin stood there for half a second longer.

Then followed.

Not resisting.

Not complying either.

Just…figuring it out.

School Cafeteria

The cafeteria wasn’t loud.

Not the way it should’ve been.

Noise existed- but it stayed contained.

Laughter muted. Conversations clipped. Movement controlled.

Even chaos had rules.

Jonah didn’t care about any of that.

He sat in his chair, tray slightly crooked, focused entirely on getting his food onto his fork without dropping it.

Raven stood beside him.

Calm.

Patient.

“Slow,” she said.

Not correcting.

Just… guiding.

Jonah grinned.

“I got it.”

He did not have it.

Raven adjusted the tray slightly so it wouldn’t slide.

That helped.

Across the room-

A different kind of attention was building.

Arel-Sin stood near one of the tables.

Not lost.

Not unsure.

Just… still.

“…Arel-Sin?” one of the boys said.

A few snickers.

“That your real name?”

Another voice:

“What kind of name is that?”

Arel-Sin didn’t respond.

Didn’t look away either.

The energy shifted.

Not loud.

…but tightening.

Raven noticed.

Of course she did.

She didn’t rush.

Didn’t snap.

Just stepped away from Jonah.

“Keep going,” she told him quietly.

Then she crossed the room.

Not fast.

Not slow.

Intentional.

She stopped beside Arel-Sin.

Close enough to be part of the space.

Not close enough to escalate it.

“Problem?”

One word.

Flat.

The boys looked at her.

Reassessed.

“No,” one said.

Too quickly.

“Just asking.”

Raven held his gaze.

A second longer than comfortable.

“Then you got your answer.”

A beat.

No one pushed it.

They looked away first.

The moment dissolved.

Raven didn’t linger.

Didn’t lecture.

She just turned.

Arel-Sin followed.

Back to Jonah.

Jonah looked up.

“…Did I miss something?”

“No,” Raven said.

“You’re good.”

Arel-Sin sat down.

Exhaled slightly.

“…Thanks.”

Raven shrugged.

“Wasn’t for you.”

A beat.

“…Still,” he said.

Jonah looked between them.

Then went back to his food.

Silence settled.

Not awkward.

Just… shared.

After a moment, Raven spoke.

“I never asked.”

Arel-Sin glanced at her.

“Your name.”

A beat.

“…I don’t really know,” he said.

Raven raised an eyebrow slightly.

“In the Blade,” Arel-Sin continued, “names just… happen.”

He picked at his food.

Not hungry.

Just doing something with his hands.

“They don’t explain it,” he added. “They just use it.”

Raven listened.

“What matters is that it sticks,” he said. “That it’s yours.”

A pause.

“That it sounds like you.”

Raven nodded slightly.

That made sense.

“…but my dad has theories,” Arel-Sin added.

That got her attention.

“…Yeah?”

“It was originally ‘Arel Singh.’”

Raven tilted her head.

“My mom named me,” he said.

A small pause.

“She died when I was born.”

That landed differently.

Arel-Sin didn’t dwell on it.

“My dad knew the name,” he continued, “but… in the Blade, things get shortened.”

A small shrug.

“He started calling me Arel-Sin.”

A beat.

“Didn’t bother correcting anyone after that.”

Raven considered that.

“…and Zasaramel?”

Arel-Sin hesitated.

“He thinks it’s Hebrew,” he said. “Something like… ‘lifted up by God.’”

Raven let out a small breath.

“…So what, you’re both-”

Arel-Sin cut her off, gently.

“We don’t know.”

A beat.

“He never met his parents,” he said.

That settled it.

“Whatever he is,” Arel-Sin added, “he figured it out himself.”

Raven looked at him.

Then at Jonah.

Then back at him.

“…Yeah.”

Arel-Sin leaned back slightly.

“Names don’t matter as much as people think,” he said.

Raven took a sip of her drink.

“They matter,” she said.

A beat.

“…Just not for the reasons people use them.”

Jonah looked up again.

“I like your name,” he said.

Arel-Sin blinked.

“…Thanks.”

Jonah nodded.

Then- a small, proud grin.

“I could make it cooler.”

Raven smirked slightly.

“…How?”

Jonah thought.

Very seriously.

“…Arel-Sin the Destroyer.”

Arel-Sin exhaled through his nose.

“…No.”

Raven almost smiled.

Detention Room

The detention room was smaller than Arel-Sin expected. Not cramped, but deliberately arranged so that every inch of space felt accounted for. The desks were evenly spaced, aligned with quiet precision, as if the room itself enforced discipline before the instructor ever had to. Even the air felt still, controlled, like noise had been filtered out before it could form.

Arel-Sin took a seat near the middle. Roxy dropped into the chair beside him, less carefully, her posture already suggesting she had no intention of respecting the room’s atmosphere. A few other students sat scattered around them, each one occupying their own pocket of silence.

“So-” Arel-Sin began quietly, turning slightly toward her.

“I wouldn’t,” Roxy said, not even looking at him.

He paused. “Wouldn’t what?”

“Talk.”

Arel-Sin considered that for a moment, then gave a small nod. “…Fair.”

He still tried anyway.

“What’s your-”

“Enough.”

The instructor’s voice cut across the room, not loud but absolute. It didn’t rise or sharpen; it simply existed in a way that made everything else stop.

“Silence is not optional,” the instructor continued, eyes moving between them without any visible irritation. “You have already demonstrated difficulty with compliance. An additional hour. Both of you.”

Roxy leaned back in her chair, eyes closing briefly in disbelief. “Seriously?”

“Three hours total,” the instructor replied.

Roxy let out a quiet exhale. “…Worth it.”

Arel-Sin didn’t react. He sat still, absorbing the consequence without argument, though something in his posture shifted- less resistance now, more calculation.

A stack of notepads was placed on each desk, followed by pens.

“You will write an essay on the honour of the school uniform,” the instructor said, as if assigning something entirely reasonable, “and how you will uphold that honour moving forward.”

Roxy made a soft gagging sound, not quite loud enough to be called defiance, but not subtle either.

The instructor ignored it completely.

“Begin.”

Pens started moving, some reluctantly, some immediately. Roxy stared at the blank page in front of her like it had personally offended her existence.

“…Honour,” she muttered under her breath, the word tasting wrong.

Arel-Sin had already started writing. His movements were steady, deliberate, not rushed but not hesitant either. He wasn’t engaging with the meaning of the assignment so much as completing it.

Roxy glanced over at him. “You’re actually taking this seriously?”

“I’m finishing it,” he said, without looking up.

That seemed to settle the matter. Roxy sighed, dragged the pen across the page, and began writing as well, her expression making it clear she disagreed with every word she put down.

Time passed in a way that felt heavier than usual, not slow exactly, but dense. Every minute seemed to press itself into the room, making its presence known.

Eventually, the door opened.

The shift was immediate, though no one spoke. Arel-Sin didn’t look up at first, but he knew. He could feel it before he saw it.

Zasaramel stepped inside.

He didn’t announce himself. He didn’t need to. The room adjusted around him, not outwardly, not in any way the instructor would acknowledge, but perceptibly. Even the students who didn’t know who he was seemed to understand that something had entered the space that didn’t belong to its rules.

The instructor glanced at him, measured him, then nodded slightly. “You’re here for-”

“Arel-Sin.”

The name was enough.

The instructor gestured toward him. “You may finish your sentence.”

Arel-Sin stood, gathering his things with quiet efficiency. Only then did he look at his father.

“…Sorry.”

It wasn’t defensive. It wasn’t rehearsed. It was simply said.

Zas held his gaze for a moment, reading him rather than reacting.

“We’ll talk later.”

There was no threat in it, which made it land more clearly than one would have.

Arel-Sin nodded.

Ruby stepped in behind Zas, her presence lighter but no less noticeable. Her attention moved across the room with curiosity rather than judgment, until it settled on Roxy. She took in the outfit, the posture, the quiet defiance in how Roxy held herself, and something about it clicked.

“I like your style,” Ruby said.

Roxy blinked, caught slightly off guard, then broke into a grin. “Thanks.”

“Keep it,” Ruby replied, with a faint smirk.

Roxy sat a little straighter after that, as if the validation mattered more than she expected it to.

Another figure appeared at the door.

Alisa.

She stepped in quickly, scanning the room until she found Roxy. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Roxy said immediately, as if the question itself was unnecessary.

Alisa nodded, relief passing over her face, and then her attention shifted—briefly, but noticeably- to Zasaramel. It wasn’t recognition of who he was, but of what he was: composed, grounded, physically imposing in a way that didn’t demand attention but commanded it anyway.

“…Hi,” she said.

Zas inclined his head slightly. “Zasaramel.”

“Alisa.”

The exchange was brief, but not empty. Ruby noticed it, and more importantly, she noticed what sat underneath it- not attraction alone, but something quieter. Fatigue. Distance. The kind of loneliness that didn’t announce itself.

Ruby stepped forward just enough to shift the moment.

“We’re doing dinner tonight,” she said, as if it had already been decided. “Nothing big. You’re welcome to come.”

Alisa blinked, clearly not expecting that. “Oh. I- are you sure?”

“Yes,” Zas said simply.

There was no hesitation in it, no expectation either. Just an open door.

Roxy looked at her mother, already halfway sold. “…We’re going.”

Alisa exhaled, a small smile forming despite herself. “…Okay.”

…and just like that, something new had been set in motion.

Chapter 7

Zasaramel’s House

The car ride back was quiet at first, but not tense. More like everyone was deciding how the conversation was going to happen before it actually started. The late afternoon light stretched across the road, the kind that made everything look softer than it really was.

Zasaramel drove. Ruby sat in the passenger seat, one arm resting against the window, occasionally glancing back. Arel-Sin sat behind them, posture straight but not rigid, still in uniform, still feeling it.

Zas didn’t rush into it.

He let a few streets pass first.

Then, calmly, “What happened.”

Arel-Sin didn’t hesitate. “I untucked my shirt.”

Zas nodded once. “I gathered that.”

A beat passed.

“Why.”

Arel-Sin shifted slightly in his seat. “It was uncomfortable.”

There was no attitude in it. Just fact.

Zas kept his eyes on the road. “Uncomfortable how.”

Arel-Sin looked down at the shirt, then back up. “Too tight. Or… too stiff. I don’t know. It just didn’t feel right.”

Ruby turned slightly in her seat, reaching back and tugging lightly at the fabric near his shoulder like she was assessing it in real time. “It’s already a size up from what you usually wear,” she said. “And those shirts aren’t cheap.”

There was no accusation in her voice, just practicality.

Arel-Sin nodded. “I know.”

Zas glanced at him briefly in the mirror, “and instead of adjusting, you decided to ignore the rule.”

Arel-Sin thought about that. “I didn’t think it would matter that much.”

Zas exhaled quietly. “It always matters that much in places like that.”

Arel-Sin didn’t argue.

“I’m not happy about the detention,” Zas added, his tone still even. “Not because you got caught. Because you didn’t think it through.”

That landed.

Arel-Sin leaned back slightly, absorbing it. “…Yeah.”

Ruby softened a bit, her hand still resting against the back of the seat. “We can figure something out,” she said. “Different fit. Different fabric if we can get it. Or at least something that doesn’t feel like you’re wrapped in cardboard.”

Arel-Sin let out a small breath through his nose. “That would help.”

Zas nodded. “You follow the rules while you’re there. Until you understand which ones matter and which ones don’t.”

Arel-Sin glanced forward. “…and this one matters.”

“For them, it does,” Zas said. “So for now, it matters for you.”

Arel-Sin didn’t like it, but he understood it.

“…Okay.”

Ruby glanced out the window, then back again. “You’re not in trouble,” she added. “You just made it harder on yourself than it needed to be.”

That took some of the weight off.

Arel-Sin nodded once. “Got it.”

The car settled again, quieter now but clearer.

After a moment, Ruby tilted her head slightly, watching the road behind them. “They’re still there,” she said.

Zas checked the mirror. Alisa’s car followed at a steady distance, not too close, not too far. Roxy was visible in the passenger seat, moving as she talked, already animated about something.

Ruby smirked faintly. “I like her.”

Zas didn’t respond right away.

Arel-Sin did. “…Roxy?”

“Yeah,” Ruby said. “She’s loud in the right way.”

Arel-Sin considered that. “…She is.”

Zas’s eyes stayed on the road, but there was the faintest shift in his expression.

“…and the mother?” Ruby added, almost casually.

That got his attention.

“She’s… figuring things out,” Zas said.

Ruby caught that phrasing immediately.

“Aren’t we all,” she replied.

Arel-Sin looked between them, not fully following but understanding enough to know there was something there.

Zas didn’t elaborate.

The road curved slightly as they turned into their neighborhood, the houses spreading out more, less structured than the academy but not chaotic either. Something in between.

The kind of place where things weren’t decided for you- but also weren’t entirely predictable.

Zas slowed the car as their house came into view.

“Dinner,” Ruby said quietly, almost to herself, like she was already thinking ahead.

Arel-Sin leaned back, letting the tension of the day settle out of him piece by piece.

Behind them, Alisa’s car followed them in.

…and whatever this next phase was going to be-

it had already started.

Zasaramel’s House

The house felt different when you stepped inside it. Not louder, not brighter- just lived in, even with boxes still stacked along the walls and half-unpacked corners waiting their turn. The Carnelian Blade artifacts stood out immediately, not arranged for display so much as placed where they felt right. Textiles draped over furniture that hadn’t asked for them, carved pieces resting beside modern fixtures, the scythe still leaning where it hadn’t yet found a permanent home.

Joanna was the first to react.

She looked from Zas to Alisa, then back again, her expression already forming the joke before she said it. “We’re not even a week in and you’re already trying to add a third woman to the marriage?”

Ruby didn’t miss a beat. “At this rate we’re going to need a sign out front. ‘Zasaramel’s Harem-now accepting applications.’”

Zas stepped past them, setting his keys down like he wasn’t walking into that line of fire. He leaned in and kissed Joanna, then Ruby, easy and familiar, before answering. “No harem is coming.”

Joanna crossed her arms, unconvinced on principle.

Zas glanced between them, then added, “You two give me enough trouble.”

Ruby gave him a look. Joanna actually scoffed. “Oh, we’re the problem now?”

Zas didn’t argue it. He just let the moment pass with the smallest hint of a smile, which somehow made it worse.

Behind them, Roxy had already drifted deeper into the house, her attention locked onto the artifacts. She moved slowly, not out of caution but curiosity, like she didn’t want to miss anything by going too fast. Arel-Sin followed a few steps behind, watching her take it all in.

“You didn’t tell me your dad was some cool Mortal Kombat warrior,” Roxy said, half-turning toward him, eyes still scanning the room.

Zas heard it. Of course he did.

“I am no Mortal Kombat warrior,” he said calmly. “I am just a mortal.”

Roxy looked at him, then at the scythe, then back at him again.

“…Yeah, I don’t believe you.”

Arel-Sin didn’t comment. He didn’t need to.

Alisa lingered near the entrance a moment longer before stepping in fully. Her gaze moved more carefully than Roxy’s, less excited but more deliberate, taking in details instead of impressions. When she spoke, it was quieter, but no less direct.

“I have a lot of questions.”

Zas nodded once. “You wouldn’t be the first.”

She stepped closer to one of the displays, her attention settling on a piece that didn’t look like it belonged anywhere near a suburban living room. Her eyes narrowed slightly, recognition forming not from experience, but from knowledge.

“…This is from Oddiyana.”

Zas looked at her properly now.

“You’ve been there?”

Alisa shook her head. “No. I’ve read about it.”

There was no pride in the statement, just honesty.

“I always wondered what it’s actually like,” she added, glancing back at him. “The Blade.”

There was a pause- not long, but enough for the room to settle around the question.

Zas didn’t deflect it.

“It’s not some SoulCalibur fantasy,” he said. “It’s just… different.”

The way he said it removed more than it revealed, which somehow made it feel more real.

Alisa held that for a moment, then nodded slightly, like she understood that she wasn’t going to get a story out of him. Not like that.

Across the room, Ruby had already shifted into motion, pulling open a cupboard and checking what they actually had to work with for dinner. Joanna followed, still energized, already half-planning something more elaborate than necessary.

Roxy lingered near the artifacts a moment longer, then drifted back toward Arel-Sin. “Your house is insane,” she said, not as criticism, but as fact.

Arel-Sin considered that. “…Yeah.”

It didn’t feel insane to him.

Just… normal.

Zas stood where he was for a moment, watching the room come alive in a way it hadn’t yet since they’d moved in. Conversations overlapping, movement picking up, people settling into spaces they hadn’t been in an hour ago.

Not chaos.

Not control.

Something in between.

…and for the first time since they’d arrived in El Requeson, it felt like the house wasn’t just a place they were staying.

It felt like something was starting.

They settled into the kitchen in a way that felt unplanned but natural. Plates came out, something warm made quickly but not carelessly, and the conversation filled the space the way food does when people are still deciding how comfortable they are with each other.

For a while, it stayed light. Roxy asked questions about the artifacts. Joanna answered half of them and embellished the other half. Ruby corrected her just enough to keep things honest. Arel-Sin mostly listened, occasionally adding something small when it mattered.

Alisa watched all of it, not distant, but observant.

Eventually, she looked at Zas.

“Why did you leave?”

The question didn’t interrupt anything. It just… redirected it.

Zas didn’t answer immediately. He set his fork down, not because he needed to think of an answer, but because he was deciding how much of it to say out loud.

“It wasn’t one thing,” he said.

Alisa nodded, waiting.

“I didn’t want to raise him there,” Zas added, glancing briefly at Arel-Sin. “That’s part of it.”

Arel-Sin didn’t react, but he heard it.

Zas continued. “I was getting older. That world doesn’t forgive that.”

There was no bitterness in it. Just fact.

“…and I wanted something different,” he said. “Quieter.”

A small pause.

“I was tired.”

That was the closest he came to admitting it plainly.

“Tired of the fighting,” he added. “The lawlessness.”

The word sat in the room, heavier than anything before it.

Alisa leaned forward slightly. “A lot of people don’t leave.”

“No,” Zas said. “Most don’t.”

“Why not?”

Zas gave a faint shrug. “They don’t trust what’s outside it.”

A beat.

“Some of them are right not to.”

That landed.

“I wasn’t sure I’d fit anywhere else,” he added. “Still not, sometimes.”

Ruby looked at him immediately, but didn’t interrupt.

Joanna didn’t either.

Zas kept going. “I thought about it for a long time. Longer than I should have.”

He leaned back slightly in his chair.

“I was scared,” Zas said.

That surprised Roxy more than anything else he’d said.

“…but I figured,” he continued, “if I could stand in front of an eight-foot giant with a battleaxe and not hesitate…”

A small pause.

“…I could get on a plane.”

Another beat.

“To Ohio.”

Roxy blinked.

“…An eight-foot giant?”

Zas didn’t look at her.

“What,” she said, leaning forward slightly, “like- actually eight feet?”

No answer.

“That’s not a real thing,” she pressed.

Zas reached for his drink.

Took a sip.

Arel-Sin didn’t look up.

“…He’s not going to answer that,” Arel-Sin said.

Roxy looked between them.

“…That means it’s real.”

Zas set the glass down.

Didn’t confirm it.

Didn’t deny it.

The conversation moved on because he let it.

“The move itself wasn’t complicated,” he said. “UCSS had a foreign workers’ program in the Indus Valley. That got me in the system.”

Alisa nodded, following.

“After that, it was… limited,” Zas added. “Until it wasn’t.”

“Wrestling,” Arel-Sin said quietly.

Zas glanced at him, then nodded once. “Wrestling.”

It wasn’t pride. It wasn’t dismissal either. Just acknowledgment of the path that opened.

“That got me somewhere more stable,” he said. “After that…”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

He didn’t need to.

Joanna leaned slightly into him.

Ruby didn’t move, but she was already part of it.

“I found something worth staying for.”

He reached over, lightly tapping the side of one of the baby carriers near the table. “Two things,” he corrected.

Kyren shifted slightly, his small hand curling instinctively around Raven’s finger as she steadied the bottle for him. Souren made a soft, impatient sound beside her, and she adjusted without looking, guiding the second bottle into place with practiced ease.

She hadn’t said much since arriving. She didn’t need to.

Joanna moved around her without thinking about it. Ruby passed her a cloth without asking. The space had already made room for her.

Kyren settled first, the tension leaving his tiny frame as he fed. Souren followed a moment later, quieter now.

Alisa followed Zas’s gesture, but her attention didn’t stay on him for long. It shifted instead—to Raven.

To the way she handled both children at once. Calm. Precise. Familiar.

Not hesitant.

Not new.

Alisa’s expression softened without her realizing it.

“…How did that happen?” she asked, almost under her breath. “All of this.”

Zas understood the question.

He didn’t rush it.

“I met Joanna first,” he said.

Joanna smiled faintly, like she remembered it differently but wasn’t going to argue.

“We built something,” Zas continued. “Then Ruby was already there.”

Ruby gave a small shrug. “I wasn’t going anywhere.”

“It wasn’t planned,” Zas said. “It just… made sense.”

He looked between them.

“We realized we loved each other. Not in parts. All of it.”

A pause.

“So we decided to make it work.”

Alisa let out a small breath. “That’s… not exactly standard.”

“No,” Ruby said. “It’s not.”

Joanna added, “Most places don’t know what to do with us.”

“Most places don’t recognize it at all,” Ruby said. “Legally, anyway.”

Zas nodded. “Some do.”

“Rome,” Joanna said.

“Syria,” Ruby added.

“…and that’s about it,” Zas finished.

There was no frustration in it. Just reality.

Alisa leaned back slightly, taking it in.

“…and it works?”

Joanna looked at Ruby. Ruby looked at Zas.

Zas answered. “It takes work.”

Ruby added, “More than people think.”

Joanna smiled. “…and less than they expect.”

That was the closest thing to a summary they had.

The room settled again, heavier now, but not uncomfortable.

Just honest.

…and then-

Watcher, who had been lying quietly under the table the entire time, shifted.

There was a pause.

A sound.

Unmistakable.

Roxy froze.

“…Did your dog just-”

Arel-Sin didn’t even look up. “Yeah.”

Ruby sighed. “That’s his thing.”

Joanna shook her head. “He does it on purpose.”

Zas reached down, absentmindedly patting the dog. “He doesn’t.”

Another beat.

Watcher did not defend himself.

Roxy started laughing.

Not politely.

Not quietly.

The room broke with her.

…and just like that, the weight lifted- without disappearing.

The conversation didn’t stay in one place for long. It moved the way it naturally does when people are still figuring each other out- circling, shifting, landing briefly before drifting again.

Roxy’s attention eventually pulled away from the artifacts and settled on something much closer.

“…Okay, I have to ask,” she said, leaning slightly toward Raven. “Your hair.”

Raven didn’t look up immediately. She adjusted the bottle in Kyren’s mouth, waited until he settled, then glanced over. “What about it.”

“It’s blue,” Roxy said, like that alone justified the question.

Raven gave the smallest nod. “Yeah.”

Roxy tilted her head, studying it more closely now. “It looks… different. Not like mine.”

“That’s because yours isn’t real,” Raven said.

Roxy blinked. “…Wow.”

There was no bite in it, though.

Raven shifted slightly, settling Souren more comfortably. “I don’t use anything,” she added. “No dyes. No highlighters.”

Roxy’s eyebrows went up. “So that’s just… you?”

“Yeah.”

A small pause.

“I think I’ve got some Lizardfolk in me somewhere,” Raven said, like she was mentioning the weather.

That landed.

Alisa leaned back slightly, considering it. “There’s a theory about that,” she said. “That some of the traits carried over. From the Mammalians, early on. When humanity was still forming.”

Roxy looked between them. “Wait, that’s real?”

“It’s debated,” Alisa replied. “But the idea is that certain traits- like unusual pigmentation- trace back further than we think.”

Raven didn’t argue it. She just gave a small shrug, like the explanation didn’t matter as much as the outcome.

“It’s mine,” she said.

That was enough.

The conversation shifted again, as it always did.

Joanna leaned back slightly, stretching her shoulders. “I haven’t had a night like this in a while,” she said. “No travel, no booking calls, no last-minute changes.”

Roxy perked up immediately. “You wrestle, right?”

Joanna smiled. “Still do.”

“Still top card,” Ruby added, without looking up from what she was doing.

Joanna waved that off, but didn’t deny it. “I keep busy.”

Roxy looked between them.

“…and you?” she asked Ruby.

Ruby shrugged. “Less ring time these days. I help coach. Train. Keep people from getting themselves killed before they’re ready.”

“At Warrior Wrestling,” Joanna added, referring to Zasaramel’s wrestling school.

Roxy nodded slowly, taking it in. “That’s still pretty cool.”

Ruby smirked. “It pays the bills.”

Alisa glanced at Zas, “and you’re not a top-card draw?”

Zas shook his head slightly. “No.”

Roxy looked at him again, like she was reassessing everything. “You look like you should be.”

Zas didn’t react to that. “I’m not interested in it.”

“Why not?” Alisa asked.

Zas considered the question for a moment, then answered simply. “I don’t need it.”

A beat.

“I’d rather help other people get there,” he added, “and perform when it matters.”

Ruby glanced at him, not surprised.

Joanna smiled faintly. “He means that.”

Roxy leaned back slightly. “…That’s weird.”

No one disagreed.

The conversation drifted again.

“My sister would like this place,” Roxy said after a moment. “Serena.”

Alisa glanced at her. “She would.”

“She works with dinosaurs,” Roxy added, looking at Zas now. “Back in Orlando.”

That got his attention.

“…Yeah?”

“Handler,” Roxy said. “Velociraptors mostly. Some other species.”

Zas leaned forward slightly, interested now in a way he hadn’t been before, “and you?”

“I helped out,” Roxy said. “Not full-time or anything. Just… enough.”

Joanna raised an eyebrow. “Enough for what?”

Roxy grinned. “Enough to not be scared of them.”

Ruby looked at her. “That sounds like something people say right before they get eaten.”

“They’re not like that,” Roxy said. “Not once you get used to them.”

Zas watched her carefully. “What are they like, then.”

Roxy thought about it. “It depends on the species,” she said, “but… it’s like a mix.”

“A mix of what,” Ruby asked.

“Dogs, cats, and pigs,” Roxy said.

There was a pause.

“…That doesn’t help,” Joanna said.

Roxy laughed. “It does if you’ve been around them.”

Zas didn’t interrupt. He let her explain.

“They’re social, like dogs,” she said. “Independent, like cats…and pigs are smarter than people think, so… that part too.”

Ruby nodded slowly. “That actually makes sense.”

Roxy smiled, encouraged. “Yeah.”

A beat.

“I like mosasaurs the most,” she added.

That got a reaction.

“…You like the giant aquatic predators,” Joanna said.

Roxy nodded. “They’re amazing.”

Zas’s expression didn’t change, but his attention sharpened. “You’ve worked with them.”

Roxy hesitated for just a fraction of a second.

“…Yeah.”

“How close,” Ruby asked.

Roxy shrugged.

“I’ve swum with them.”

That landed.

The room went still- not dramatically, just enough.

Joanna blinked. “…You’ve what.”

Roxy grinned, leaning back like she’d been waiting to say it.

“They’re not as aggressive as people think.”

Zas studied her for a moment.

Not doubting her.

Not fully believing her either.

“…They’re still what they are,” he said.

Roxy nodded. “Yeah.”

A beat.

“So are we.”

That one stuck.

No one rushed to respond to it.

They didn’t need to.

Roxy leaned forward slightly, eyes moving between Joanna and Ruby again. “So when you say wrestling… you mean like WFE, right?”

Joanna shook her head lightly. “No.”

“That’s the big one,” Roxy said.

“It’s the loud one,” Ruby corrected.

Joanna smiled faintly. “We’re IWC.”

Roxy blinked. “…I’ve heard of it.”

“You have,” Ruby said. “You just didn’t realize it.”

Roxy sat back, processing that. “So it’s… smaller?”

“Smaller,” Joanna agreed. “Less money. Less spectacle.”

“…but more control,” Ruby added. “More say in what we do.”

Joanna nodded. “It’s enough.”

That word carried weight.

Roxy looked between them. “You don’t want more?”

Joanna shrugged slightly. “Depends what ‘more’ means.”

Ruby smirked. “More money is nice.”

Joanna didn’t disagree.

“…but we like working for Paul,” she said.

That got a reaction from Zas- subtle, but there.

Roxy tilted her head. “Paul?”

“Paul Carney,” Ruby said. “Runs the IWC.”

Joanna leaned back slightly, her tone shifting just enough to signal respect. “He actually listens.”

Zas nodded once. “He pays attention.”

“Knows what people need before they say it,” Ruby added.

“And doesn’t pretend he invented wrestling,” Joanna finished.

Roxy smiled. “Okay, I like this guy.”

Ruby snorted. “Only problem is he’s a Beasts fan.”

That got an immediate reaction.

“Of course he is,” Alisa said.

Roxy groaned. “No, come on.”

Zas allowed the smallest hint of amusement to show. “It’s his one flaw.”

“Big flaw,” Ruby corrected.

Joanna waved it off. “We tolerate it.”

The conversation shifted again, naturally.

Alisa leaned forward slightly. “WFE’s changing, though.”

That pulled the room back in.

“Vince McGeady’s gone,” she said. “Life sentence in Oirat.”

Roxy nodded. “Yeah, everyone’s been talking about that.”

“For safety violations,” Alisa added, “and for violating the Blue Standard.”

Zas didn’t react outwardly, but he heard it.

“They’ve got new owners now,” Alisa continued. “Board stayed on, but they brought in Talia Armitage. Twenty-five percent.”

“‘Taz,’” Joanna said.

Ruby nodded. “Yeah.”

“…and new bookers,” Alisa added. “The Kharina sisters.”

That got a more visible response.

Zas leaned back slightly. “Tonya and Roza.”

“You know them?” Roxy asked.

Joanna nodded. “We’ve worked around them.”

“They’re good,” Ruby said. “Different.”

Zas didn’t disagree. “They take risks.”

Joanna added, “A lot of them.”

Ruby smirked. “Sometimes too many.”

That got a small reaction.

“They’ll throw five ideas at something and see which one survives,” Joanna continued. “When it works, it really works.”

“…and when it doesn’t,” Ruby added, “you feel it immediately.”

Roxy blinked. “…That sounds stressful.”

“It is,” Joanna said.

Zas nodded once, “but they pay attention to what gets a reaction.”

A beat.

“They just don’t always filter it first.”

A beat.

“That’s new,” Ruby said.

There was a small shift in the room- something like cautious interest.

“Think it’ll work?” Alisa asked.

Joanna hesitated just long enough to matter. “Maybe.”

Ruby gave a small shrug. “We’ve said that before.”

Zas nodded once. “There are positive signs.”

Roxy leaned forward again. “Like what?”

“They signed with Warrior Wrestling,” Zas said. “No exclusivity.”

“That’s big,” Ruby added. “Old WFE never would’ve done that.”

Joanna nodded. “They used to lock everything down.”

Roxy looked between them. “So that’s good?”

“It’s better,” Zas said.

A beat.

“Doesn’t mean it’s good yet.”

That settled it.

Alisa studied him for a moment. “You don’t trust them.”

Zas met her gaze.

“I don’t trust what they were,” he said, “and I don’t know yet what they are now.”

The room quieted slightly.

Alisa didn’t press- but she didn’t let it go either.

“You worked there,” she said.

Zas nodded.

“You had that match,” she added carefully. “With Goldstein.”

Roxy glanced between them, picking up on the shift without fully understanding it.

Zas didn’t look away.

“Yes.”

No elaboration.

None needed.

“They almost got you killed,” Alisa said.

Not dramatic.

Just true.

Zas held that for a moment, then nodded once. “Yeah.”

Silence followed- not heavy, just… acknowledged.

Ruby broke it first. “That was a different company.”

Zas glanced at her.

“Maybe,” he said.

Joanna leaned forward slightly. “We’re not saying it’s fixed.”

“No,” Ruby added. “We’re saying it might be fixable.”

Zas considered that.

Then:

“We’ll see.”

That was as far as he was willing to go.

…and it was enough.

The conversation eventually found its way back to Alisa, almost naturally, as if the room had been circling her the whole time without quite landing there.

She didn’t hesitate when it did.

“I’m a sports reporter,” she said, not as an introduction but as a correction to the assumptions she could already feel forming. “Or I was, before all this.”

Roxy rolled her eyes slightly. “You still are.”

Alisa gave her a look. “I’m in between.”

She didn’t avoid the rest of it.

“The Inside Page ran photos,” she continued, matter-of-fact. “Out of context, as usual. Made it look like something it wasn’t.”

No bitterness. Just familiarity.

“I was placed on leave,” she added. “Which is their way of saying they support me while hoping the story goes away.”

Joanna frowned. “That’s… convenient.”

“It is,” Alisa said. “For them.”

A beat.

“I wasn’t going to sit around and wait for it to blow over,” she continued. “So I looked elsewhere.”

“The Iris of the Gulf,” Ruby said.

Alisa nodded. “They moved faster than my own paper did.”

“That tracks,” Zas said quietly.

Alisa glanced at him. “They offered me something real. So I took it.”

Roxy leaned back slightly, “and dragged me with you.”

Alisa didn’t apologize for that. “You didn’t fight me.”

“I didn’t win,” Roxy corrected.

That got a small laugh.

The room settled again, but not in the same way as before. There was a new thread running through it now- something about choice, about movement, about people ending up where they didn’t expect to be.

Joanna tilted her head slightly, studying Alisa. “You write all this,” she said. “You actually put it into words.”

Alisa shrugged lightly. “That’s the job.”

Ruby glanced at Zas. “We’ve been telling him to do that for years.”

Joanna nodded. “Find someone. Write it all down.”

Zas didn’t react immediately.

“He won’t,” Ruby added. “Too humble.”

“Or too aware of what people do with stories,” Zas said.

Alisa caught that.

“They turn them into something else,” he added. “Something easier to repeat.”

“That’s bad writing,” Alisa said.

Zas looked at her.

“No,” he said. “That’s most writing.”

There was no challenge in it. Just experience.

Alisa didn’t argue. She just considered him for a moment, then said, “If you ever want to do it properly… I will.”

Simple.

No pressure.

No pitch.

Just an offer.

Zas didn’t answer right away.

…but he didn’t dismiss it either.

Later that evening

The house quieted.

Plates cleared. Conversations softened. Movement slowed.

Raven carried Kyren first, then came back for Souren, moving through the house like she already knew where everything was. No hesitation, no second-guessing. She didn’t ask where to put them. She just… did it.

The hallway lights dimmed slightly as she disappeared into the room.

Alisa watched her go.

“…She’s good with them,” she said.

Zas nodded. “Yeah.”

Alisa turned back. “How do you know her.”

Zas leaned back slightly, considering how far back to go.

“I met her in Toledo,” he said. “Bus station.”

That alone said enough.

“She was running,” he added. “Didn’t have a plan. Didn’t have anywhere to go.”

Alisa’s expression shifted slightly.

“I helped her get on her feet,” Zas continued. “That’s all.”

Ruby glanced at him, but didn’t interrupt.

“She stayed around,” Zas said. “We stayed around.”

A beat.

“She learned fast.”

Joanna smiled faintly. “Very fast.”

Zas nodded. “I trained her.”

That caught Alisa’s attention.

“To fight,” he added.

There was no performance in it. No pride. Just fact.

“She’ll be better than me one day,” he said.

Ruby smirked slightly. “He says that about everyone he actually respects.”

Zas didn’t deny it.

“She’s family,” Joanna said simply.

Alisa absorbed that.

“…and she babysits?” she asked.

“We pay her,” Ruby said.

“She didn’t want us to,” Joanna added.

“We insisted,” Zas finished.

That was the end of that.

Raven returned then, quieter than before.

“They’re down,” she said.

Joanna nodded. “Thank you.”

Raven shrugged slightly, like it didn’t need to be said.

Alisa looked at her, more directly now. “What do you do.”

Raven didn’t hesitate.

“I dance,” she said. “King’s Harem.”

A beat.

“…and I do sex work.”

No apology.

No hesitation.

Just truth.

Alisa didn’t flinch.

“…Okay.”

Raven watched her, measuring the reaction.

“It’s not always glamorous,” she added, “but it’s honest.”

Alisa nodded slowly. “That’s more than most people can say about their jobs.”

Raven held her gaze for a second, then gave the smallest nod.

“I don’t hide it,” she said. “No reason to.”

Roxy looked between them, quietly impressed.

“…Yeah,” she said.

The room settled again, but differently this time.

Not heavy.

Not light.

Just… real.

Outside

The air outside was different.

Cooler. Quieter. The kind of quiet that didn’t feel empty, just… settled. Arel-Sin stood on the balcony, the mosquito net lightly brushing against his shoulder as he leaned forward, looking out over the courtyard below.

The pool sat at the center, still and dark, reflecting the faint glow of the surrounding lights. No one was out there. No noise. Just water and space.

It felt… far away from the academy.

From everything.

The door slid open behind him.

Roxy stepped out, already scanning the space before she even spoke. Then she saw it.

“…Okay, that’s actually really cool.”

Arel-Sin glanced back. “Yeah.”

She moved closer to the net, pressing lightly against it to get a better look. “There’s a pool right there.”

“Yeah.”

Roxy turned to him, eyes already lit with an idea. “We should go in.”

Arel-Sin blinked. “…Now?”

“Yeah, now.”

He looked down at himself. “I’m not wearing anything for that.”

Roxy didn’t miss a beat. “Neither am I.”

A beat.

“That’s not stopping me.”

Arel-Sin hesitated.

Roxy tilted her head slightly, already halfway amused. “What, you’ve never done anything spontaneous before?”

“That’s not-” He stopped himself. “…This is different.”

“There’s no rule against it,” she said, “and it’s night. No one’s even out there.”

She gestured toward the empty courtyard like that settled it.

Arel-Sin looked again.

Still quiet.

Still empty.

Roxy was already moving and taking off her clothes.

“Come on,” she said, heading for the door. “You think too much.”

He watched her go.

Paused.

Then exhaled once and followed.

---

The water was colder than expected.

Not freezing- but enough to make the first second hit harder than it should.

Roxy surfaced first, pushing her hair back and letting out a quiet laugh. “Okay, that woke me up.”

Arel-Sin came up a second later, adjusting quickly, his movements already controlled.

“You get used to it,” he said.

Roxy flicked water at him. “Oh yeah?”

He didn’t react.

So she did it again.

That got his attention.

Arel-Sin reached forward and sent a small wave back at her- not aggressive, just enough.

Roxy grinned. “Oh, we’re doing this.”

For a moment, it was simple.

Water. Movement. Laughter that stayed just under the level of the night.

Nothing structured. Nothing controlled.

Just… being there.

Roxy floated back slightly, then straightened. “Race you.”

Arel-Sin looked at her. “…You’re sure about that.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Don’t overthink it.”

A small pause.

Then she took off.

Fast.

Confident.

For about two seconds.

Arel-Sin followed- not rushed, not strained, just efficient. His strokes were clean, steady, almost effortless. Within moments he was already ahead.

Roxy realized it halfway across.

“…Oh come on.”

Arel-Sin didn’t answer. He just kept moving.

He reached the far end first- then, just before touching the wall, slowed slightly, letting the gap shrink just enough.

Roxy hit the wall a second later, breath catching. “You-” She exhaled, half-laughing. “You held back.”

Arel-Sin rested his arm along the edge. “…A little.”

“Wow,” she said. “That’s worse.”

He didn’t argue.

She shook her head, still catching her breath. “Okay. Noted. Don’t race you.”

They both settled there, side by side, the water calming around them again.

For a while, neither of them said anything.

They didn’t need to.

The night filled the space instead.

Roxy shifted slightly, leaning back against the wall, closer now without really thinking about it. Arel-Sin didn’t move away.

“…This is better than detention,” she said.

Arel-Sin let out a quiet breath. “…Yeah.”

The courtyard stayed empty.

The water stayed still.

…and for the first time that day, nothing was asking anything from them.

Roxy didn’t let go.

Not right away.

Arel-Sin leaned into her, the tension he’d been holding all day- longer than that- finally giving way. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. It was quieter than that. The kind of crying that felt like it had been waiting for permission.

Roxy didn’t say anything at first. She just held him, one hand steady against his back, the other resting lightly near his shoulder, keeping him grounded.

“It’s okay,” she said eventually, soft but certain. “Just let it out.”

He did.

The water moved slightly around them, small ripples pushing outward and disappearing just as quickly. The courtyard stayed quiet, the world outside the moment not pressing in.

After a while, the tension eased. His breathing steadied. The weight didn’t disappear, but it shifted- lighter, manageable.

Arel-Sin pulled back slightly, not fully, just enough.

“…Thanks,” he said.

Roxy shrugged like it was nothing, even though it wasn’t. “Yeah.”

A beat.

“I needed that,” he added.

“I know,” she said.

That was all.

The door to the balcony slid open.

Voices carried lightly through the netting before the figures followed- Zas first, then Joanna and Ruby, Alisa just behind them, and Raven last.

They paused when they saw them.

Not surprised.

Just… taking it in.

Zas’s expression didn’t change much, but he saw enough.

“It’s time,” he said.

Not a command.

Just a marker.

Roxy leaned her head back against the wall. “…We just got in.”

Ruby glanced at the water, then at Roxy. “You’ve been in long enough to make that argument weak.”

Roxy smirked. “One more thing.”

Joanna raised an eyebrow. “That sounds dangerous.”

Roxy pushed off the wall, turning toward them. “Race.”

A beat.

“With all of you.”

Ruby didn’t hesitate.

“Done.”

She was already moving before anyone else had fully processed it, slipping into the water with zero ceremony.

Raven followed just as quickly, smooth and quiet, barely making a splash.

Joanna laughed under her breath. “Of course they did.”

Then she joined them.

Alisa hesitated for half a second- just enough to acknowledge the moment- then stepped forward and followed in, the water catching her with a sharp intake of breath and a small, surprised laugh.

Zas remained where he was.

Roxy noticed immediately.

“…You’re not coming in?”

Zas looked at the pool, then back at her. “I don’t need to.”

“That sounds like fear,” Roxy said.

Joanna, from the water, added, “He’s afraid to lose.”

Ruby smirked. “It’s okay. We won’t judge.”

Zas gave them all a look.

Then, without another word, stepped forward and got in.

The water barely reacted.

They lined up loosely- no real structure, no signal beyond Roxy’s energy.

“Across, back, across again,” she said. “Until someone gives up.”

“That someone is going to be you,” Ruby said.

“Wow,” Roxy replied. “Support.”

Arel-Sin watched them, the earlier weight still there but no longer overwhelming. Something steadier had taken its place.

“Ready?” Roxy said.

No one answered.

They didn’t need to.

She took off anyway.

This time, it wasn’t just speed.

It was endurance.

Back and forth across the pool, the water breaking and reforming around them, rhythm settling in. Ruby pushed hard early. Joanna kept pace, controlled and efficient. Alisa surprised herself, holding longer than she expected. Arel-Sin stayed steady, measured, not wasting movement.

Zas moved like he always did- economical, precise, nothing extra.

Raven stayed quiet.

Until she didn’t.

She didn’t surge.

She didn’t announce it.

She just… kept going.

While the others started to slow, to feel it, to lose that initial edge, Raven maintained hers. Not faster. Just consistent.

One length turned into two.

Two into three.

Breathing grew heavier. Movements less clean.

One by one, they started to fall behind.

Roxy was the first to slow dramatically. “Okay- this was a bad idea.”

Ruby laughed between breaths. “You said it.”

Joanna shook her head, still moving but clearly feeling it now.

Alisa reached the edge and stayed there, catching her breath, smiling despite herself.

Arel-Sin slowed next, not stopping, but recognizing the shift.

Zas was still there.

So was Raven.

The final stretch wasn’t called.

It just… happened.

Raven reached the wall first.

Zas touched it a second later.

Neither of them celebrated.

They didn’t need to.

The rest followed, one by one, collapsing against the edge, breathing hard, laughing quietly, the energy spent in the best possible way.

Roxy looked over at Raven, still catching her breath. “…Okay. Didn’t see that coming.”

Raven shrugged slightly. “You talk too much.”

That got a laugh.

Zas glanced at her. “You held back.”

Raven shook her head. “No.”

A beat.

“Not much,” she added.

Eventually, the moment settled.

The water calmed again.

The night crept back in around them.

“Okay,” Ruby said after a while. “Now we’re done.”

This time, no one argued.

They climbed out slowly, one by one, the air hitting differently now, cooler against tired muscles.

Towels were passed around. Movements slowed. The night winding down naturally.

Alisa and Roxy lingered a moment longer.

“We should go,” Alisa said, not rushing it.

Roxy nodded, though she didn’t move right away. Her eyes went back to the pool, then to Arel-Sin.

“I’m coming back,” she said, “and next time I’m winning.”

Arel-Sin smiled slightly. “You can try.”

She stepped closer and hugged him again- shorter this time, but just as certain.

“I’ll train,” she said.

“I know you will,” he replied. “I look forward to the challenge.”

She pulled back, satisfied.

They headed toward the exit together, the energy of the night settling into something quieter, something that would last a little longer than the moment itself.

Arel-Sin watched them go.

Then turned back toward the house.

Chapter 8

The Cottage Cheese Gym

The gym didn’t look impressive.

That was the first problem.

Roxy stood just inside the entrance, taking it in—the mismatched equipment, the worn flooring, the faint smell of effort that no amount of cleaning ever really got rid of. It wasn’t sleek. It wasn’t curated. It didn’t look like anything she’d ever seen online.

“…This is it?” she muttered.

No neon lights. No mirrors set up for angles. No music designed for clips.

Just work.

She stepped further in anyway.

Five minutes later, she regretted it.

She stood near a rack, hands on her hips, breathing harder than she expected to be this early into anything. The movement she’d tried- simple on video, effortless when other people did it-felt completely different in her own body.

“…This is ridiculous,” she said under her breath.

She adjusted her stance, tried again, lost balance slightly, corrected it, then stopped altogether.

“They make this look so easy,” she added, louder this time, frustration creeping in.

“Because you’re not seeing the work.”

Roxy turned.

Lila Parisi stood a few feet away, watching her—not judging, not amused, just… aware. Her posture was relaxed, but there was nothing casual about the way she held herself.

Behind her was her father, Andrea- “Deacon”- was mid-conversation with Luca Montano, both of them keeping an eye on the room without making it obvious. Luca’s daughter Iris stood nearby, stretching with quiet focus, while Alina Torres leaned against a piece of equipment, arms folded, observing everything like she’d seen this scene before.

Roxy exhaled. “…Okay, I know that now.”

Lila stepped closer, not crowding her. “Gym work is real work,” she said. “It’s not clips. It’s not angles. It’s repetition.”

Roxy nodded, still catching her breath. “I want to take it seriously. I do. I just…” She gestured vaguely. “Didn’t realize it was this much.”

Lila didn’t soften the truth. “Most people don’t.”

That stung a little.

“…but that’s not a problem,” Lila added after a beat. “It just means you’re at the beginning.”

Roxy let out a small laugh. “…That’s a nice way of saying I’m bad.”

“You’re new,” Lila corrected. “There’s a difference.”

Luca stepped in then, pushing off the wall like he’d been waiting for the right moment.

“Show me what you’re trying to do,” he said.

Roxy blinked. “…You serious?”

He nodded once. “Yeah.”

She hesitated, then repositioned herself, repeating the movement—less confident now that someone was watching, more aware of every mistake.

She lost her balance again.

Luca didn’t react immediately. He just watched.

“Stop,” he said after a moment.

Roxy froze.

He stepped closer, adjusting her stance slightly with a few precise movements- feet, shoulders, alignment.

“You’re thinking about what it looks like,” he said. “Not what it feels like.”

Roxy frowned. “What’s the difference?”

“All of it,” he replied.

Alina nodded from where she stood. “He’s right.”

Luca stepped back. “Try again.”

Roxy did.

This time it wasn’t perfect- but it was better. More stable. Less forced.

She felt it immediately.

“…Oh.”

Luca gave a small nod. “There it is.”

Roxy straightened, surprised despite herself. “That felt… easier.”

“It’s not easier,” Lila said. “It’s correct.”

Roxy let out a breath. “…I hate that.”

Lila smirked slightly. “You’ll get used to it.”

For the next few minutes, the gym narrowed around that one thing- movement, correction, repetition. Roxy stopped thinking about how she looked and started paying attention to what she was doing. It wasn’t smooth. It wasn’t impressive.

…but it was real.

Luca didn’t over-instruct. He corrected when needed, let her fail when it mattered, and stepped in just before frustration took over.

Alina added the occasional comment- short, direct, always on point.

“Slow it down.”

“Don’t rush the finish.”

“Control it.”

Lila stayed nearby, not intervening, just watching with quiet approval.

Eventually, Roxy stepped back, hands on her knees, breathing hard again- but differently this time.

“…Okay,” she said. “That’s… not what I thought this was.”

“No,” Luca said. “It isn’t.”

She looked up at him. “…You’re just going to help me like that?”

Luca shrugged slightly. “You showed up.”

That was enough for him.

Roxy nodded slowly.

“…Alright.”

Across the room, Iris finished her set and glanced over, catching the shift in Roxy’s posture. Not confidence yet- but direction.

That mattered more.

Roxy stood up straight again, resetting herself.

“Again?” Luca asked.

She didn’t hesitate this time.

“…Yeah.”

They kept going.

Not in a dramatic way. No montage, no sudden breakthroughs- just repetition. Roxy reset her stance, tried again, corrected, tried again. The movements didn’t get easier, but they started to make more sense. Her body stopped fighting them quite as much.

Sweat came faster now. Breathing heavier. The early confidence she’d walked in with had been replaced by something quieter, more focused.

Real.

Luca watched without hovering, stepping in only when something mattered. “Again,” he said once, and Roxy did it again. “Slower,” he said another time, and she adjusted. No wasted words.

Alina stayed nearby, arms folded, occasionally adding something short and precise. “Don’t rush it.” “Hold it.” “Finish the movement.”

Lila had moved on to her own work but kept an eye on things. Iris finished her set and drifted closer, not interrupting, just observing.

Eventually, Luca raised a hand slightly.

“Alright.”

Roxy stopped, grateful for the break but trying not to show it too much. She stood there for a second, catching her breath, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand.

Luca studied her- not critically, just measuring.

“If you’re serious,” he said, “we can build something for you.”

Roxy looked up. “…Like what.”

“A plan,” he said. “Structure. Something you follow every day.”

A beat.

“…but only if you’re serious.”

That landed.

Roxy nodded slowly. “I am.”

Luca held her gaze for a moment longer, making sure.

Then: “Good.”

A small pause.

“We start tomorrow.”

Roxy blinked. “…Tomorrow?”

“Five a.m.”

That hit differently.

Roxy’s expression shifted just slightly- barely there, but enough.

Luca saw it immediately.

He didn’t ask what she was thinking. He didn’t need to.

“I don’t know your schedule,” he said, “but I know that look.”

Roxy crossed her arms slightly, defensive without meaning to be. “…What look.”

“The one where this starts interfering with how you like to live,” Luca said.

No judgment.

Just recognition.

“The gym isn’t something you fit in when it’s convenient,” he continued. “It’s something you build around.”

Alina nodded once. “It’s not a side hustle.”

Roxy looked down for a moment, then back up.

Iris stepped in then, tone lighter but just as direct. “What are you doing tonight?”

Roxy hesitated. “…There’s a party.”

“Big one?” Iris asked.

Roxy shook her head. “Not really.”

“Important?” Iris continued.

“…No.”

A beat.

“I just usually go to something,” Roxy admitted. “Every weekend.”

Iris nodded, already understanding. “So this one’s skippable.”

Roxy didn’t answer right away.

That was answer enough.

“You’re at the start,” Iris said. “This is where it matters most.”

She wasn’t pushing- just laying it out.

“Once you’re in a rhythm, you can figure out balance,” she added, “but right now? You don’t have one yet.”

Roxy exhaled slowly.

The gym suddenly felt heavier again- not physically, but in what it was asking of her.

A choice.

Luca didn’t speak. Neither did Alina.

They let her sit in it.

Roxy looked around the room- the worn equipment, the people who moved like they belonged there, the absence of anything performative.

Then she looked back at Luca.

“…Five a.m.?” she said.

“Five,” he confirmed.

A small pause.

Roxy nodded once.

“…Alright.”

Luca didn’t smile.

He just said, “Be here.”

The gym felt different that early.

Quieter than usual, but not empty. The kind of quiet where every sound carried just a little further- the hum of the lights, the soft shift of weight plates somewhere in the back, the faint rhythm of someone already working.

Luca sat on a bench near the entrance, elbows resting lightly on his knees, watching the door without looking like he was watching it.

4:45.

He wasn’t early.

He was on time.

The question was whether she would be.

He’d seen it before- the nod, the agreement, the confidence in the moment, and then the next morning came, and the decision felt different. Softer. Easier to ignore.

He didn’t blame people for it.

…but he didn’t build around it either.

4:52.

The door opened.

Roxy stepped in, pushing it with her shoulder, one hand wrapped around a cup that looked bigger than it needed to be. Her hair was pulled back without much thought, her eyes heavy, her steps just slightly slower than yesterday.

…but she was there.

Luca didn’t react right away.

He just took it in.

“…Morning,” she said, voice still waking up.

Luca nodded once. “You made it.”

Roxy lifted the cup slightly. “Barely.”

She took a sip like she was proving a point.

Luca stood, walking past her without ceremony, heading toward a small shelf near the wall. He grabbed something, turned back, and held it out.

A protein bar.

Roxy looked at it. “…What’s that for.”

“You didn’t eat,” Luca said.

She blinked. “I had coffee.”

“That’s not food.”

Roxy opened her mouth to argue, then stopped. “…How do you know I didn’t eat.”

Luca gave her a look.

She glanced down at the cup.

“…Okay, yeah.”

He didn’t push it further. “Eat.”

Roxy sighed, but took the bar. “You’re very bossy this early.”

“You showed up,” Luca said. “Now we train.”

That was the deal.

Roxy unwrapped it, taking a bite like she wasn’t sure if her body wanted it yet.

It did.

They didn’t go near the heavy weights.

Not even close.

Roxy noticed immediately.

“…So when do we get to the real stuff,” she asked, gesturing toward the racks.

“This is the real stuff,” Luca said.

She frowned. “This looks like the warm-up.”

“It is.”

A beat.

“…and you’re not past it yet.”

Roxy exhaled through her nose. “…Great.”

Luca didn’t react. “Start here.”

He demonstrated the movement once—slow, controlled, nothing flashy. Then stepped back.

Roxy tried it.

It didn’t feel impressive.

No strain to show off. No weight to measure against. Just positioning, balance, control.

She adjusted. Tried again.

“…This is kind of boring,” she said.

“Yeah,” Luca replied.

No argument.

“No one posts this part,” Alina said from across the room, already working through her own routine.

Roxy glanced over. “…That tracks.”

“Do it again,” Luca said.

She did.

Time moved differently that early.

There was no crowd, no noise, no distraction. Just repetition. Correction. Effort.

Roxy stopped thinking about what it looked like.

There was no one to perform for.

Only whether it was right.

Luca adjusted her stance once, then again, then stopped touching anything at all, letting her figure out the difference between almost right and actually right.

She got frustrated.

Then she got it.

Then she lost it again.

Then got it back.

By the time the room started to wake up- by the time more people filtered in, by the time the noise built back to something recognizable- Roxy was already sweating, already breathing harder, already deeper into it than she’d expected to be.

She stepped back finally, hands on her knees, catching her breath.

“…Okay,” she said. “That was… more than I thought.”

Luca nodded once. “Good.”

Roxy looked up at him. “…We didn’t even touch the weights.”

“No,” he said.

A beat.

“Now you’re a little closer to earning them.”

Roxy let out a tired laugh. “…Wow.”

She straightened, wiping her face with her sleeve.

“…I’m coming back tomorrow,” she said.

Luca didn’t smile.

He just said, “Be here.”

Axolotl Acres- Motel

The lobby of Axolotl Acres looked like it had been updated just enough to say it had been updated.

The couch didn’t match the chairs. The chairs didn’t match the floor. The TV mounted in the corner was newer than everything else and playing a baseball game with the sound off.

Behind the desk, Ross “Red” McCrain leaned back in his chair, watching the screen like a man who followed the game but refused to let it run his life.

The door opened.

Red didn’t turn right away.

He just said:

“If you’re here to complain about the Wi-Fi, I already don’t care.”

A beat.

Then he looked.

…and took in the full picture.

Buffalo cap.
Buffalo hoodie.
Buffalo sweatpants.
Even the jacket- stitched, clean, almost formal- had the Beasts crest on it.

Red gave a slow nod.

“…You get dressed in the dark, or is that deliberate?”

Paul Carney walked up to the desk, unfazed, setting his bag down.

“Good to see you too, Red.”

Red gestured vaguely at him.

“There’s a surcharge for that.”

“For what?”

“Walking in here looking like a road game.”

Paul laughed. “How much?”

Red pretended to think about it.

“Baseball season? I’ll be generous. Football season, I double it.”

Paul picked up the keycard Red slid across.

“That’s fair.”

“Room’s the same,” Red said. “Don’t start anything I have to finish.”

“No promises.”

Red’s eyes flicked back to the TV, then to Paul.

“You’re hovering again, right?” he said. “Not bad, not good. Just… there.”

Paul didn’t flinch. “We’re building.”

Red smirked.

“You’ve been building for a while.”

A beat.

“Toronto’s not building,” Red added. “Amarillo’s not building. They just win.”

Paul leaned lightly on the counter.

“…and then they fall.”

Red gave a small shrug.

“Sometimes.”

He tapped the desk once.

“Boomers still a problem?”

Paul exhaled slightly through his nose. “Always.”

“That’s your issue,” Red said. “You don’t just have to be good- you’ve got to get through three teams that already are.”

Paul nodded once.

“We will.”

No bravado.

Just certainty.

Red studied him for a second.

“…You actually believe that.”

Paul didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

Red tilted his head slightly.

“…and you’re in town for the Dragons.”

Paul’s expression shifted just a touch- more relaxed now.

“Yeah.”

Red snorted.

“They’re off to another rough start.”

Paul allowed himself a small smile.

“That’s not going to help them.”

Red pointed at him immediately.

“Careful.”

Paul raised an eyebrow. “With what?”

“That,” Red said. “You start talking like it’s already done…”

A beat.

“…that’s when it isn’t.”

Paul shook his head. “That’s not real.”

Red leaned back.

“Tell that to every team that’s walked into a bad season thinking they’d fix it in a weekend.”

Paul picked up his bag.

“We’re better than them.”

Red didn’t argue that.

He just said:

“Yeah.”

A beat.

“Say it again on your way up.”

Paul smirked.

“You trying to jinx me?”

Red gave him a look that was just a little too neutral.

“I’m saying nothing.”

Paul headed for the stairs, not rushing, not looking back.

The door closed behind him.

Red watched the TV again.

A clean hit into the gap. Runner rounding second.

He nodded slightly to himself.

“…Go ahead,” he muttered.

“Keep saying it out loud.”

He leaned back in his chair, just a little more invested than he’d admit.

La Rubi del Sol

La Rubi was quieter in the morning, but not empty.

Coffee, breakfast plates, the low hum of conversation—punctuated now by the TV mounted in the corner, where the game was already well underway.

Paul Carney sat at the counter, plate mostly untouched, eyes locked on the screen.

Behind him and around the room, the rest of the crowd leaned the other way.

Karen at a booth.
Oscar behind the counter, half-watching while pretending not to.
Raven seated nearby, relaxed, one leg tucked under her, following the game without the tension.
Mondo at the far end, already settled in like he had nowhere else to be.

Other patrons dotted the space- but the divide was clear.

One Beasts fan.

Everyone else, Dragons.

The score said everything.

18-1. Third inning. No one out.

No one was really talking anymore- just reacting in small bursts of disbelief.

Karen shook her head. “They’re not even trying.”

Oscar didn’t look up from what he was doing. “They tried. It just didn’t help.”

On the TV, another pitching change.

“…That’s their girl for tomorrow,” Mondo said.

“Was,” Oscar corrected.

The pitcher managed to finally get the last out of the inning.

A small, sarcastic clap came from somewhere in the room.

Paul didn’t join in.

He didn’t say anything at all.

He just watched.

He wasn’t smiling.

Not really.

There was satisfaction there, sure- but it was controlled. Contained.

He’d seen too much baseball to celebrate in the third inning.

Especially like this.

The game moved to the fourth inning.

First pitch.

Crack.

The ball carried.

Gone.

18-2.

A few people in La Rubi perked up immediately.

“Okay,” Karen said. “There we go.”

Paul didn’t move.

Didn’t react.

…but something shifted.

Then:

Double.

Walk.

A slow, ugly sequence that turned into something worse.

A wild pitch.

The catcher scrambled, threw late-

The ball sailed.

Outfielder grabbed it-

Overthrew first.

Chaos.

Runs scored.

18-5.

The room woke up.

Oscar leaned forward slightly now.

“…Alright.”

Karen smiled. “Now it’s interesting.”

Paul shifted in his seat.

Just slightly.

Then again.

His eyes narrowed at the screen, posture tightening.

The lead was still enormous.

…but that didn’t matter.

Bases loaded.

Now Paul leaned forward fully, elbows on the counter.

He didn’t say anything.

He just… watched.

Karen noticed.

“…It’s 18-5,” she said.

Paul didn’t respond.

Oscar glanced over, amused now.

“You look like it’s tied.”

Still nothing.

Crack.

No doubt.

Gone.

A grand slam.

18-9.

The room erupted- not wildly, but enough. Energy, noise, movement.

Karen laughed. “Okay, now we’re having fun.”

Paul immediately flagged the counter.

“Can I get a beer?”

Oscar didn’t even look at him.

“It’s morning.”

Paul blinked. “…Right.”

A beat.

“…Dessert.”

Oscar slid a menu over without comment.

The Coping Mechanism

Paul now had:

• one slice of pie
• one second slice of pie
• and something else he didn’t even look at before ordering

He wasn’t really eating.

He was managing.

The TV cut to ads.

The Game Resumes at the Diner

The room buzzed now- people talking, laughing, leaning in.

Mondo turned slightly toward Paul, grin already forming.

“You ever seen a comeback like this?”

Paul snapped his head toward him.

“Don’t.”

Mondo leaned in, enjoying it. “I’m just saying- momentum-”

“Don’t,” Paul repeated, sharper now- but still controlled.

A beat.

“…You don’t say that out loud.”

Mondo blinked.

Then grinned wider.

“Oh, you’re one of those.”

Paul leaned back slightly, shaking his head.

“You don’t tempt it.”

Karen laughed. “Tempt what?”

Paul didn’t answer.

He just looked back at the TV.

First batter.

Crack.

Gone.

No doubt again.

18–10.

Silence.

Then-

Karen burst out laughing.

Oscar just stared at the screen.

“…Huh.”

Paul stood up slightly.

“Do you have ice cream.”

Oscar pointed behind him.

“Freezer.”

Paul walked over, opened it, and grabbed a full tub.

No bowl.

No spoon at first.

Then he found one.

Sat back down.

Opened it.

Started eating.

No one stopped him.

Karen leaned back, watching him now more than the game.

“This is unbelievable.”

Raven, quieter, just observed- eyes moving between Paul and the screen, understanding something about the tension without needing to comment.

Mondo shook his head. “It’s still an eight-run game.”

Paul didn’t look at him.

“It was seventeen,” he said.

That was the problem.

The TV played on.

The inning wasn’t over yet.

…and now-

Everyone was watching.

The door opened.

Roxy walked in first- movement a little tighter than usual, posture just slightly off. Not injured. Just… worked.

Luca followed behind her, steady as always.

Raven looked up immediately.

“Hey.”

Roxy dropped into the chair beside her with a small exhale. “…Hey.”

Raven studied her for half a second.

“How’d it go?”

Roxy leaned back. “He’s working me.”

She gestured vaguely toward Luca.

“…but…” she added, a small grin creeping in, “…I like it.”

Raven smiled.

Not wide.

Just enough.

Then she looked at Luca.

Luca met her eyes for a moment.

No words.

Just a shared understanding:

Let’s see if she still says that in a few weeks.

Luca greeted the room the way he always did- brief, direct, familiar.

A clasp with Mondo.
A nod to Oscar.
A quick acknowledgment to Karen.

Nothing performative.

Just presence.

Then-

He noticed Paul.

Paul sat at the counter.

Second tub of ice cream.

Half gone.

Eyes locked on the TV like something irreversible was happening.

Luca glanced up.

24-12.

Sixth inning.

He frowned slightly.

“…What’s eating him?”

Mondo didn’t even look up from the screen.

“He’s a fan.”

Luca nodded once.

“Yeah.”

That explained everything.

Mondo smirked. “I’m having fun with it.”

Luca glanced at him. “…I can tell.”

“It’s the only fun I’m getting out of this game,” Mondo added. “Blowout turned into… whatever this is.”

On the TV, another run scored.

24-13.

The room reacted.

Paul froze.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

Just stared.

Like if he blinked, something worse would happen.

Then came time for the seventh inning stretch

The broadcast cut to the stretch.

Music played.

People stood.

Moved.

Talked.

Paul didn’t.

Then suddenly-

He did.

He got up, set the spoon down, and walked out.

No announcement.

Just gone.

Luca watched him go.

Then stood.

“I’ll be back,” he said.

Roxy barely looked up. “…Okay.”

Outside La Rubi

Paul stood a few feet from the entrance, hands on his hips, staring out at nothing in particular.

Not panicking.

…but not far off.

Luca stepped out beside him.

Didn’t say anything right away.

Just stood there.

Gave him a second.

“…You good?” Luca asked.

Paul exhaled slowly. “…Yeah.”

Pause.

“No.”

Luca nodded.

That tracked.

He glanced back toward the building.

“Twenty-four to thirteen.”

Paul didn’t respond.

Luca looked at him.

“As a Dragons fan,” he said, “I’d love the day I get to stress over a lead like that.”

That landed.

Paul blinked.

Then let out a short laugh- more air than sound.

“…Yeah.”

A beat.

“That’s fair.”

He shook his head slightly.

“It just… doesn’t feel like it should be happening.”

Luca shrugged.

“That’s baseball.”

Paul nodded.

“That’s baseball.”

They stood there for a moment longer.

The noise from inside carried faintly through the walls.

Luca didn’t push.

Didn’t joke.

Didn’t minimize it.

He just let Paul settle.

Eventually, Paul straightened slightly.

“…I’m good,” he said.

Luca gave a small nod.

“Alright.”

They headed back inside.

The final out came and went almost quietly.

Strike three.

Ballgame.

27-15.

For a second, no one reacted.

Not because nothing had happened.

Because too much had.

Paul exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for an hour.

“…Alright.”

He set the empty ice cream tub down like it had served its purpose.

“That’s it.”

A beat.

“We’re good.”

Karen stared at him.

“You’re acting like that was a one-run game.”

Paul shook his head. “It felt like one.”

Oscar snorted from behind the counter. “It was never a one-run game.”

Paul pointed at the TV. “It was seventeen runs.”

“That’s not how math works,” Karen said.

Paul didn’t respond.

Because, to him, it absolutely was.

The postgame show rolled on.

No celebration.

No real breakdown of the Beasts.

Just the Dragons. It was a Dragons broadcast after all.

The tone was measured- professional, but reaching.

“Well, there are positives to take away…”

Mondo leaned back slightly. “Here we go.”

“Mickey Moniak with a home run- good to see him find some power.”

“Julie Benjamin continues to impress- speed on the basepaths, creates pressure every time she’s on.”

Raven nodded slightly at that. “She’s good.”

Paul didn’t disagree.

“Suzanne Escalera settling in after coming on early- really strong outing under the circumstances.”

Oscar glanced at the screen. “She gave them a chance.”

“…and C.J. Cron- two home runs, still red hot since joining the club.”

Karen smiled. “That part I’ll take.”

The analysts paused.

Not much else to say.

Because there wasn’t.

Paul leaned forward slightly.

“They didn’t play that badly after the third,” he said.

No one had asked.

He kept going anyway.

“Escalera stabilized it. Benjamin’s a problem. Cron’s swinging well.”

Karen looked at him. “…Are you doing their postgame now?”

Paul ignored that.

“Our starter was bad,” he said.

That got everyone’s attention.

“Harry Vincent’s been our weakest guy for a while,” Paul continued. “That’s not new.”

He gestured toward the screen.

“…but you don’t leave him in there hoping he finds it. That’s on the manager.”

A beat.

“And then going to a utility arm right after?”

He shook his head.

“That’s waving the white flag too early.”

Oscar nodded slightly.

That part tracked.

Paul leaned back now, settling into it.

“The bullpen’s still a problem,” he added. “It has been.”

Karen crossed her arms. “You won by twelve.”

Paul looked at her.

“That’s not the point.”

…and to him, it wasn’t.

“You can get away with that against them,” he said, nodding toward the Dragons’ logo on the screen.

“…but not Toronto.”

A beat.

“Not Amarillo.”

Another.

“Not the Boomers.”

Mondo smirked. “Here we go.”

“…and definitely not Rosarito,” Paul finished.

That one had weight.

Raven watched him quietly.

This wasn’t panic anymore.

This was who he actually was.

Paul stopped suddenly.

Looked around.

Realized-

No one had actually asked for any of this.

“…Sorry,” he said.

Karen shook her head, smiling. “No, keep going. This is better than the broadcast.”

Oscar added, “You’re at least talking about both teams.”

Mondo leaned forward. “Yeah, what else did they mess up?”

Paul paused.

Then let out a small laugh.

“…A lot.”

He glanced back at the TV.

Then around the room.

Then back again.

“…Still,” he said.

A beat.

“That was a hell of a game.”

No one argued.

Paul’s analysis hung in the air for a moment- long enough for it to settle, long enough for someone to push back.

Luca did.

“That inning wasn’t all on Vincent,” he said.

Paul glanced over.

Luca leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table.

“When it went from 18–2 to 18–5,” he continued, “that wasn’t pitching. That was fielding.”

Oscar nodded faintly. He’d seen that part too.

“Bad throws. Missed plays. No focus,” Luca added. “You can’t hang that on one arm.”

Paul didn’t interrupt.

…but he didn’t agree either.

Luca continued, steady.

“…and you’re up fifteen runs in the third.”

A beat.

“You let your pitcher pitch.”

Paul tilted his head slightly.

“Give him the chance to finish the inning,” Luca said. “At least get himself right. Get the decision. Be the pitcher of record.”

Raven watched the exchange quietly.

No tension.

Just difference.

“Especially this time of year,” Luca added. “This isn’t October.”

Paul exhaled slowly.

“…No.”

That part was fair.

He leaned back slightly, choosing his words.

“I’ve met Vincent,” he said.

That shifted the tone.

“He’s a good man.”

Not sarcasm.

Not dismissal.

Just fact.

Karen glanced at him.

Paul continued.

“They made a big deal signing him,” he said. “Big contract. Big expectations.”

A beat.

“He was solid his first year.”

Another.

“Not worth the deal- but solid.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow at that phrasing.

Paul didn’t soften it.

“…and since then…” he trailed off slightly.

Luca didn’t fill it in.

Paul did.

“…he’s been sliding.”

No drama.

Just frustration worn down over time.

Paul rested his hands on the counter.

“I’ve been waiting for it to come back,” he said. “The version of him they paid for.”

A beat.

“I’m starting to think it’s not.”

That was the real line.

Luca didn’t argue that.

Because that part?

Wasn’t about one inning.

Paul looked back at the TV.

“…At some point,” he added, “you stop waiting.”

That one landed.

Even Raven felt it.

A pause.

Then Luca shifted.

Not away.

Forward.

“What about tomorrow,” he said.

Paul didn’t hesitate.

“They burned Escalera today.”

Luca nodded.

“So they pivot.”

Paul gave a small nod back.

“They already did.”

Karen leaned in slightly. “Who?”

“Whitney McCarthy,” Paul said.

A beat.

“Call-up.”

Mondo frowned. “That good?”

Paul shrugged lightly.

“Don’t know much yet.”

Then:

“Forkball.”

That got Luca’s attention.

Paul tapped the counter once.

“Good one, from what I’ve seen.”

Raven tilted her head slightly. “That’s not a pitch you fake.”

“No,” Paul said. “It isn’t.”

Karen crossed her arms. “So you’re not worried.”

Paul shook his head.

“I didn’t say that.”

A beat.

“I won’t underestimate her.”

That part was clear.

He glanced back at the screen.

Then back at the table.

“…Question is,” he said,

“will we?”

That hung there.

Because everyone knew what he meant.

Outside La Rubi

The sun had climbed just enough to make the air feel warmer than it had any right to be earlier.

Luca stepped out first, keys already in hand, his pace steady and unhurried. Paul followed a few steps behind, still mid-thought from the conversation inside.

“They’ll adjust,” Paul was saying. “They have to.”

Luca shrugged. “Or they don’t.”

Paul gave a small nod. “That too.”

They reached the parking lot. Luca stopped beside his vehicle, turning slightly as Paul finished his thought.

“If they treat tomorrow like today, they’re going to get caught,” Paul added.

Luca leaned lightly against the door. “You really think that call-up’s that dangerous.”

Paul didn’t hesitate. “Forkball.”

That was enough for him.

Luca gave a small nod. “Yeah.”

Paul’s phone lit up in his hand- some notification he didn’t check.

Luca’s eyes flicked to it without thinking.

Paused.

Then looked again.

“…That’s Zlydasyk,” he said.

Paul glanced down, then back up, casual. “Yeah.”

On the screen, he and Hailey Zlydasyk leaned into each other, both smiling, hands forming a shared heart.

It wasn’t staged.

It didn’t look forced.

It looked… familiar.

Luca gave a small nod.

“That’s a good pull.”

Paul smirked slightly. “She’s great.”

A beat.

“She hugs better than any of my ex-wives.”

That landed.

Luca didn’t laugh.

Didn’t react much at all.

Just… took that in.

“…You’ve got a few of those,” he said.

Paul shrugged. “Enough.”

Luca nodded toward the phone. “How’d you manage that.”

Paul looked down at it again, then slipped it back into his pocket.

“It’s not as hard as people think,” he said. “You just don’t make it weird.”

Luca raised an eyebrow slightly.

“Most fans go in trying to take something,” Paul continued. “Time. Attention. A moment.”

A beat.

“I don’t.”

That was the difference.

“I talk to them like people,” he added. “If they give you something back, great. If they don’t, you leave it there.”

Luca nodded slowly.

That tracked.

“Some of them are just polite,” Paul said. “Nod, quick conversation, move on.”

Another beat.

“…and some… you see more.”

He didn’t oversell it.

Didn’t romanticize it.

“With Hailey,” he said, “we talk.”

Simple.

“After games, if she’s got time. Messages sometimes.”

Luca glanced at him again.

“…That’s rare.”

Paul nodded once. “Yeah.”

Luca folded his arms loosely. “That didn’t happen overnight.”

“No,” Paul said. “It didn’t.”

A beat.

“…and it helps that I can pay to be there.”

That part he didn’t hide.

“Suite access. Events. Travel,” he added. “You get more chances.”

Luca gave a small nod.

“Still doesn’t mean they have to like you.”

“No,” Paul said. “It doesn’t.”

He looked back toward La Rubi.

“…I try to do something with that.”

Luca glanced at him. “Like what.”

Paul shrugged.

“Bring people.”

He looked back at Luca.

“I’ve got a suite tomorrow.”

A beat.

“Got space.”

Luca didn’t even need to think about it.

“I can’t,” he said. “Training.”

Paul nodded immediately. “Alright.”

No push.

“Hey- Mondo.”

Paul raised a hand, spotting him stepping out of La Rubi.

Mondo walked over, curious already.

“What.”

Paul jerked his head toward Luca. “Got space in the suite tomorrow.”

Mondo looked at Luca.

Then at Paul.

Then back at Luca.

“…and?”

“He’s got training,” Paul said.

Mondo blinked.

Then laughed.

“You’ve done that exercise a million times.”

Luca didn’t react. “It’s scheduled.”

“It’s always scheduled,” Mondo shot back.

Mondo stepped closer, pointing at him.

“Go to the game.”

Luca didn’t move.

Mondo pressed on.

“Go sit in a suite. Eat food you didn’t pay for. Watch actual baseball instead of whatever that was in there.”

He gestured back toward La Rubi.

“…and maybe bring back a ball,” he added.

A beat.

“…Or three.”

Paul said nothing.

Just watched.

Luca exhaled slightly through his nose.

Still undecided.

Dragon Yard

The stadium wasn’t empty.

…but it wasn’t awake yet either.

Staff moved through routines. Equipment carts rolled quietly along concrete. The field sat untouched, waiting.

Paul Carney walked in like he belonged there.

Because, at this point- he did.

He carried a tray of stadium breakfast that wasn’t meant to be impressive:

-Egg sandwich.
-Coffee.
-Something he didn’t need but ordered anyway.

He sat where he always did when he got in this early.

Not in the suite.

Not yet.

Close enough to the field to feel it.

He pulled out his phone.

Typed.

Good luck today.

No emojis.

No overthinking.

He sent it.

A few seconds passed.

Then-

A reply.

Are you here already?

Paul smirked slightly.

Yeah.

A pause.

Then:

Stay there.

She didn’t rush.

She didn’t make a scene.

She just… appeared.

Hailey Zlydasyk walked out onto the edge of the seating area, already in early gear, already in her routine- but adjusting it slightly.

For him.

Paul stood.

They didn’t hesitate.

They hugged.

It wasn’t quick.

It wasn’t awkward.

It wasn’t performative.

It was familiar.

Paul exhaled slightly as they separated.

“…Yeah,” he said.

Hailey smirked. “What.”

“You didn’t forget how to do that.”

She laughed under her breath. “I think I’m alright.”

They sat.

Not like:

• player and fan
• celebrity and admirer

Just two people who had done this before.

Hailey glanced at his tray.

“You’re really eating that this early.”

“It’s part of it,” Paul said.

“What is.”

“Being here early. Food tastes better.”

She shook her head, but she was smiling.

Paul didn’t waste time.

“McCarthy,” he said.

Hailey nodded immediately.

“Forkball.”

“You’ve seen it.”

“On tape,” she said. “Not live.”

A beat.

“It’s good.”

That wasn’t casual.

Paul nodded.

“You worried?”

Hailey shook her head.

“No.”

Another beat.

“I just don’t want to guess.”

That was the real answer.

“I’ll go over it with the hitting coach,” she added. “Figure out how we want to attack it.”

Paul nodded.

That tracked.

Hailey leaned back slightly.

“You bringing people today?”

Paul shrugged.

“Some.”

A beat.

“They’re locals.”

Meaning: not Beasts fans

Hailey smiled.

“That’s fine.”

Another beat.

“As long as you’re here.”

She didn’t overstate it.

She didn’t need to.

Paul smirked slightly.

“I’ve got one maybe,” he added.

Hailey looked at him.

“Yeah?”

“He’s got a kid. She’d like it.”

That got her attention.

“Bring them,” she said.

Simple.

Immediate.

Paul hesitated slightly.

“They’re not really-”

“I don’t care,” she cut in.

A beat.

“I can get them down for batting practice and the clubhouse cafeteria.”

That was the line.

Controlled.

Real.

Special.

Paul looked at her.

That was more than he expected.

“…and I’ll get her something,” Hailey added.

Paul raised an eyebrow.

“What.”

She smirked slightly.

“Bat.”

Paul laughed under his breath.

“…You’re going to ruin me.”

Hailey shrugged.

“Then don’t mess it up.”

Paul’s phone was already in his hand.

He didn’t hesitate.

He called.

Luca answered on the second ring.

“…Paul?”

There was a pause.

“You don’t call people in the morning.”

Paul smirked slightly. “You’re awake.”

“I’ve been awake,” Luca said. “That’s not the point.”

A beat.

“Where are you?”

Paul didn’t stretch it out.

“At the stadium.”

Silence.

“…You’re serious.”

“Yeah.”

Another beat.

“…Already?”

Paul glanced toward the field. “Been here.”

Luca exhaled through his nose. “That’s excessive.”

“Yeah,” Paul said. “It is.”

Then-

“Hey,” Hailey said, leaning into frame.

Luca froze for half a second.

Not starstruck.

Just… recalibrating.

“…Alright,” he said slowly. “Now I understand why you’re calling.”

“Iris.”

Luca didn’t raise his voice much.

Didn’t need to.

Iris appeared almost instantly.

“What-”

She saw the screen.

Stopped.

Then:

“…Hi.”

She tried to hide her excitement.

She really did.

…but it wasn’t working.

Hailey Zlydasyk smiled immediately.

“Hey.”

Iris nodded too quickly. “Hi.”

Another nod.

“…Hi.”

Hailey’s smile softened.

She’d seen this before.

She liked it every time.

“You should come today,” Hailey said.

Simple.

Direct.

Luca shook his head slightly. “I’ve got-”

“We’ll take care of it,” Paul said.

Luca looked back at him.

“You don’t even know where I live.”

Paul shrugged. “Tell me.”

A beat.

“…and I’ll get a car there in minutes.”

Luca didn’t respond immediately.

Because that was real.

Hailey stepped in again.

“I’ll get her a bat,” she said, nodding toward Iris.

Iris froze again.

“A signed one.”

A beat.

“…and if you come early,” Hailey added, “we can bring you down for batting practice.”

Luca looked at Iris.

He didn’t need to ask.

She was already shaking her head.

Not no.

Just- don’t say no

“…You don’t have to do all that,” Luca said.

Hailey shrugged lightly.

“I want to.”

Paul didn’t push.

Didn’t rush.

He just said:

“If it’s easier, I’ll send the car.”

A beat.

“No pressure.”

Luca exhaled slowly.

Still thinking.

Still balancing it.

Iris leaned in slightly.

“Dad.”

That was it.

He looked at her.

Then back at the phone.

“…Alright.”

Paul ended the call without ceremony.

Like it had been decided long before it actually was.

The noise of the stadium returned.

Distant.

Background.

Hailey didn’t say anything right away.

She just looked at him.

“You do that a lot,” she said.

Paul glanced at her. “What.”

“Take care of people.”

He didn’t answer immediately.

Because that one sat a little differently.

“When I met you,” she said, quieter now, “you were going through it.”

Paul looked away slightly.

Not avoiding.

Just remembering.

“That divorce,” she added. “You didn’t want that.”

He let out a small breath.

“…No. I loved her.”

A beat.

Hailey rested her hand lightly over his.

Not dramatic.

Not lingering.

Just there.

“Sometimes I wonder,” she said, “if all this-”

She gestured lightly.

“-is you trying not to be alone.”

Paul didn’t pull away.

Didn’t deflect.

Didn’t joke.

“…Maybe,” he said.

That was enough.

Hailey gave a small nod.

Then:

“You deserve better than that.”

Paul looked at her.

Didn’t argue.

Didn’t agree.

Just… accepted it.

Hailey stood.

“Come on.”

Paul followed.

“Let’s go meet your people.”

They headed down toward the field entrance, the stadium beginning to wake up around them.

The car didn’t drop them at the front.

It slid into a quieter entrance- concrete, controlled, people moving with purpose instead of excitement.

Luca stepped out first, scanning out of habit.

Iris stepped out right behind him-

-and immediately stopped.

“…We’re not supposed to be here.”

Luca gave a small look around.

“…We are today.”

Inside, the difference was immediate.

-No crowds.
-No noise.
-No spectacle.

Just:

• carts moving
• staff talking in low voices
• doors opening and closing like everything had a schedule

Iris stayed close.

Not scared.

Just… aware.

They didn’t have to look for them.

Paul was already there, leaning casually like he’d been waiting for five minutes or five years- it was hard to tell.

…and beside him-

Hailey Zlydasyk

Iris froze again.

“…Hi.”

She tried to keep it together.

She really did.

Hailey smiled immediately and stepped forward.

“Hey.”

She didn’t hesitate- she pulled Iris into a hug.

That did it.

The tension snapped.

Iris exhaled mid-laugh, the nerves dissolving almost instantly.

“…Okay,” she said under her breath. “Okay.”

Hailey pulled back, eyes dropping to Iris’ chest.

“…That’s mine.”

Iris froze again.

Looked down.

“…Yeah.”

A beat.

“I’m sorry.”

Hailey shook her head.

“It’s fine.”

Then, with a small smirk:

“At least it’s my jersey.”

Iris smiled, relieved.

“Come on,” Hailey said. “We’ve got a few minutes.”

They moved. They were on their way to the Beasts’ clubhouse cafeteria.

The deeper they went, the more it changed.

The stadium stopped feeling like a place for fans.

It felt like a place people worked.

They passed:

• equipment rooms
• open doors with players inside
• staff who barely looked up

Luca took it in quietly.

He’d been through buildings like this before.

…but not like this.

Not alive like this.

Iris didn’t say much.

She just looked.

Everywhere.

Trying not to stare.

Failing a little.

Clubhouse Cafeteria

The cafeteria wasn’t glamorous.

It wasn’t supposed to be.

-Food laid out.
-Players sitting in small clusters.
-Some talking.
-Some not.

A few glanced up as they entered.

Most didn’t.

Paul stopped just inside.

This was where he shifted.

“Alright,” he said quietly.

Not stern.

…but clear.

“Act normal.”

A beat.

“…and let them come to you.”

Iris nodded immediately.

Too quickly.

Paul continued.

“If someone talks to you- great.”

“If they don’t- leave it.”

He gestured subtly around the room.

“They’re not being rude.”

“They’re working.”

Luca gave a small nod.

That made sense.

Hailey stepped in, refining it.

“They’re all different,” she said.

“Some guys will talk your ear off.”

A faint smile.

“Some won’t even look at you.”

She shrugged.

“Both are normal.”

Iris nodded again.

Slower this time.

Actually processing it.

“Just… don’t interrupt anything,” Hailey added.

“That’s it.”

Paul glanced at Iris.

“You’ll be fine.”

She took a breath.

Looked around again.

This time- a little steadier.

The cafeteria was bigger than Iris expected.

Not glamorous. Not luxurious.

Just efficient.

Long tables. Televisions mounted high in corners. Stainless steel counters lined with breakfast food that had drifted into lunch. Coffee everywhere. Players moving in and out with the rhythm of people who had somewhere to be soon.

It did not feel like backstage access.

It felt like work.

Hailey brought them in casually, without announcement.

That alone told Luca everything.

No one stopped them because no one needed to. She belonged there, and for the moment, that was enough.

Paul followed with the ease of someone who understood the unwritten rules. He didn’t stare, didn’t hover, didn’t wave at everyone like he was entering his own party.

He simply moved like someone who knew where to stand.

Luca noticed that immediately.

They took seats near the side, not at the center of the room.

Hailey sat with them and started eating like this was normal.

Maybe for her, it was.

Iris sat ramrod straight, trying to look calm and failing in waves.

Luca said little. He just watched.

First to join them was Felix Huffman.

She arrived with two plates, a sports drink, and the kind of swagger only the very talented and very young could carry naturally.

She looked at Iris’ Dragons jersey.

“…You know that’s illegal in here, right?”

Iris froze.

Hailey didn’t even look up.

“Sit down, Felix.”

Felix grinned, slid into a chair, and immediately stole a piece of fruit from Hailey’s tray.

Next came Jose Melendez.

He carried coffee and moved with veteran calm. He nodded once to Paul, once to Hailey, once to Luca and Iris.

No wasted motion.

No wasted words.

He sat, listened, and said nothing for nearly a minute- which somehow made everyone more aware of him.

Then Bucky Leon and Rosario Beal came over together.

Rosario bumped shoulders with Hailey in greeting before sitting.

Bucky gave Paul a small nod that suggested years of seeing him around and deciding he was acceptable.

Neither talked much.

Their comfort at the table was introduction enough.

Then the room subtly changed.

Suzanne Encarnacion entered.

No one announced it. No one stared.

…but everyone knew.

She was already in game mode- focused, distant, carrying the quiet gravity starters often had on their day.

Iris saw her.

Tried not to react.

Failed instantly.

“HI!”

Too loud.

Too sharp.

Too honest.

The room paused for half a breath.

Suzanne looked over.

Measured Iris once.

Then gave a single nod.

“Hey.”

…and kept walking.

Iris covered her face.

“I’m so sorry.”

Hailey laughed softly.

“You’re fine.”

Paul leaned in.

“She acknowledged you. That’s basically a keynote speech.”

Even Luca let out a small laugh.

Greg Overton passed by next.

He tapped Paul lightly on the shoulder.

“Morning.”

He nodded to the group, then looked toward his usual corner table.

A nervous young call-up was sitting there, eating too fast and pretending not to notice.

Greg paused.

Looked at the table.

Looked at the rookie.

Then simply turned and sat elsewhere.

No scene.

Which somehow made it feel like a scene.

The rookie nearly choked on his coffee.

Then volume entered the room.

John Crock walked in carrying coffee and irritation.

“Well look at this,” he said. “Paul brought civilians.”

He shook Luca’s hand immediately.

“Strong grip. Good. Hate weak handshakes.”

He looked at Iris.

“You look overwhelmed. That’s healthy.”

Then he sat without invitation.

Crock talked to everyone.

About travel.

About hitting.

About how his newborn had screamed half the night.

“I love the kid,” he said, “but if she learns to throw a slider before she sleeps through the night, I’m trading her.”

Felix laughed so hard she nearly spit out her drink.

Even Bucky smiled.

Luca loosened without realizing it.

Paul looked around the room again.

Something felt off.

“Where’s Vincent?”

The table quieted.

Crock answered first.

“They released him.”

Paul blinked.

“What?”

“After yesterday,” Crock said. “He said goodbye last night.”

A beat.

“Paperwork’s still catching up.”

Paul leaned back slowly.

No celebration.

No anger.

Just that strange silence when something you predicted still feels different once it happens.

Jose Melendez finally spoke.

“Game moves fast.”

No one argued.

Crock sipped his coffee.

“Baseball, baby.”

John Crock had the gift some people had of making a room smaller.

Not louder, necessarily.

Just smaller.

He could sit beside a stranger and make it feel like they’d already been talking for half an hour.

So naturally, he turned toward Luca.

“You play?”

Luca looked up from his coffee.

There was no bravado in the answer.

“Used to.”

Crock leaned back.

“That usually means yes.”

A few players nearby half-listened while pretending not to.

Luca shrugged lightly.

“The Toronto Bluebirds signed me to their Academy when I was sixteen.”

That got a little more attention.

Even Felix looked over.

Crock nodded once.

“Serious then.”

Luca gave a small smile.

“For a while.”

“I got loaned around,” Luca continued. “Lower divisions. Different clubs. Different cities.”

Paul knew enough baseball to appreciate what that meant.

Buses.

Cheap apartments.

Temporary teammates.

Always proving yourself to people who might not be there next month.

“Never stuck?” Crock asked.

“Never high enough,” Luca said.

No bitterness.

Just fact.

“I was good.”

A beat.

“Not good enough.”

The room respected that answer more than boasting ever would have earned.

“So I came home,” Luca added. “Joined SWAT.”

Crock nodded.

“Family business.”

“Something like that.”

Iris had heard versions of the story before.

…but never here.

Never in a professional clubhouse, surrounded by people who had made the road her father hadn’t.

That made it heavier.

Crock noticed her expression.

“What about you?” he asked.

Iris nearly choked on nothing.

“Me?”

“Yeah, you.”

He pointed with a fork.

“You look like someone who can do something.”

Felix laughed.

“That is the vaguest scouting report I’ve ever heard.”

Iris looked at her father.

Then at Hailey.

Then around the room.

“I play,” she said.

“Pretty well,” Luca added quietly.

She shot him a look.

That somehow meant more than praise.

“…and?” Crock asked.

“…and…” Iris hesitated.

This suddenly felt too real.

“I like baseball.”

A beat.

“I’m good at SWAT training too.”

Now Luca looked at her fully.

He hadn’t heard her say it that plainly before.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

The cafeteria got quieter- not silent, but quieter.

Enough for truth.

“My family…” Iris said, eyes drifting to Luca, “…they’ve all served.”

Luca didn’t interrupt.

Didn’t rescue her.

“I don’t want to disrespect that,” she said.

“…but when I watch this…”

She looked around the room again.

“…I feel something.”

That landed harder than she meant it to.

Hailey had been quiet through most of this.

Now she spoke.

“Liking one thing doesn’t betray another.”

Simple.

Direct.

No speech.

Rosario Beal nodded faintly from across the table.

Bucky Leon kept eating, but he was listening.

Jose Melendez watched Iris with the expression of someone who had seen many young people standing at crossroads.

Luca set his coffee down.

“You wouldn’t disrespect me.”

Everyone looked at him now.

“You hear that?”

Iris blinked.

He continued.

“If you choose baseball, you’re not turning your back on family.”

A beat.

“You’d just be building your own part of it.”

That hit her harder than anything else had.

Crock slapped the table once.

“There we go.”

He pointed at Iris.

“Also, if you choose baseball and get rich, remember who gave you the speech.”

Felix groaned.

“You did not give the speech.”

“I was spiritually involved.”

Even Suzanne Encarnacion, passing behind them with tunnel vision intact, almost smiled.

Almost.

The room had settled into that comfortable pregame hum where conversations overlapped and no one fully committed to silence.

John Crock refused to let it stay there long.

He jabbed a thumb toward Luca.

“We oughta put this guy on the bench today.”

Luca looked up.

Crock continued.

“In case things get spicy.”

Felix Huffman laughed immediately.

“A designated brawler?”

“Exactly,” Crock said. “Twelfth inning, benches clear, we send in the SWAT officer.”

Even Bucky Leon smirked.

Paul shook his head.

“You’d still have to find room on the roster for yourself first.”

That got a louder laugh than Crock liked.

Crock pointed at Paul.

“You laugh now, but this is a true story.”

Paul sighed.

“We know.”

“Yeah,” Hailey added. “We all know.”

Crock ignored them.

“These two don’t.”

He pointed at Luca and Iris.

“So now it matters.”

He leaned back in his chair, settling in like a man beginning a sacred tradition.

“Early in my career,” he said, “I was in the fourth division in Bratislava.”

Felix looked at Iris.

“This means the story is going to be terrible.”

“It means the story is historic,” Crock corrected.

“I was still in the Penn Phanatics Academy then. They loaned me out so I could learn adversity.”

Paul muttered:

“They loaned you out because you couldn’t hit a curveball.”

Crock pointed without looking.

“Do not interrupt art.”

“We’re playing some local club. Middle of nowhere. Their starter gets shelled early, so they bring in a guy they’d just signed.”

Crock took a dramatic sip of coffee.

“I’ve never seen him before. Nobody had.”

“The catcher looks at me and says, ‘Careful. He just got out of jail.’”

Iris blinked.

Luca raised an eyebrow.

“I’m thinking, alright, maybe tax thing. Maybe bar fight. Maybe unpaid parking.”

Crock spread his hands.

“So I ask what he did.”

A beat.

“The catcher says he caught his girlfriend cheating on him… so he burned their house down.”

Felix nearly fell sideways laughing.

Rosario Beal covered her mouth.

Even Jose Melendez let out a short breath through his nose.

Crock held up a finger.

“Wait.”

“It gets better.”

“He says the pitcher was friends with the judge.”

Another beat.

“So the judge gave him a light sentence.”

“That wasn’t the hard part,” Crock said solemnly.

“The hard part was I liked to crowd the plate back then.”

Hailey looked at Iris.

“He still does.”

“I establish territory,” Crock said.

“So I dig in.”

“First pitch- heater at my head.”

He snapped a hand upward.

“I hit dirt.”

“Second pitch- heater at my head again.”

Now the whole table was listening.

“I’m furious. I want to charge the mound.”

He leaned forward.

“Then I remembered the house.”

The table broke.

Even Luca laughed openly now.

Paul had tears in his eyes from hearing a story he’d clearly heard many times.

Crock raised both hands.

“…but…”

He let the room settle.

“Third pitch.”

“I stay in.”

“Fastball middle-in.”

“I turn on it.”

He slapped the table.

“Double off the wall.”

Felix clapped.

“Did you celebrate?”

“No,” Crock said.

“I stood on second base trying not to make eye contact.”

That got the biggest laugh yet.

Luca shook his head.

“You stayed in after two at your head?”

Crock shrugged.

“I was young.”

A beat.

“Also stupid.”

Iris looked around the table.

These weren’t untouchable stars now.

They were people with scars, stories, stupid decisions, lucky doubles.

That made them feel bigger somehow.

Not smaller.

Paul wiped his eyes.

“You always forget the last part.”

Crock frowned.

“What last part?”

Paul grinned.

“You struck out twice later.”

The room erupted again.

Crock pointed at him.

“History remembers the double.”

The room changed in a way only athletes and people around athletes tended to notice.

Nobody announced it.

Nobody clapped hands.

…but conversations shortened. Players checked clocks they didn’t need to check. A staffer appeared near the doorway and quietly spoke to two coaches.

Luca saw it immediately.

“Meetings,” he said.

Paul nodded.

“Meetings.”

The social part of the day was over.

For now.

Across the room, the nervous rookie finally rose from the corner chair he’d unknowingly occupied.

Greg Overton walked over without urgency, sat in the seat, adjusted once, then leaned back.

Satisfied.

Paul laughed.

“He just wanted to say he sat in his spot.”

Overton gave the slightest shrug.

“Now I have.”

Even Luca smiled.

Felix Huffman sprang up first.

She pointed at Iris.

“Come here.”

Iris barely had time to react before Felix hugged her and lifted her clear off the ground.

Iris yelped.

Felix laughed.

Then she hugged Paul next.

“Still sturdy.”

Then Luca.

Luca braced himself instinctively, which only amused her more.

“Strong base,” Felix declared. “Respect.”

Bucky Leon stopped by on his way out.

He shook Paul’s hand.

“Good seeing you.”

Then nodded to Luca and Iris.

“Nice meeting both of you.”

Short. Genuine. Enough.

Rosario Beal tapped knuckles with Iris.

“Wear that jersey proud.”

Iris nearly malfunctioned.

Rosario smirked and moved on.

Jose Melendez paused briefly.

“Enjoy the day.”

Then to Luca:

“You carry yourself like an athlete.”

Luca raised an eyebrow.

“I’m still deciding if that’s a compliment.”

“It is,” Jose said, and continued walking.

John Crock pointed at Luca.

“You and the kid come back loose for batting practice.”

Then at Iris.

“We may need to see if you can help the bench.”

“I’m taking your roster spot,” Iris shot back.

The room popped.

Felix shouted from the hallway:

“CUT HIM.”

Crock clutched his chest dramatically.

“No loyalty anymore.”

Hailey Zlydasyk motioned them toward the side corridor.

“Wait here a second.”

She slipped through the clubhouse door.

Iris stared at it like it led to another dimension.

Hailey returned holding a bat.

Freshly signed.

She handed it to Iris carefully.

“There.”

Iris accepted it with both hands.

“Thank you.”

Her voice had gone small.

Hailey smiled and hugged her.

Then Paul.

Then Luca.

Warm, easy hugs from someone who knew how to make people feel included without making a scene.

Hailey glanced back toward the room.

“We’ve got meetings now.”

Then to Paul:

“Take them upstairs. Get food. Wander around. Don’t get lost.”

Paul nodded like this was standard instruction.

Then Hailey looked at Iris.

“Come back down in about forty-five minutes.”

Iris straightened instantly.

“For batting practice?”

“No promises,” Hailey said.

A beat.

“…but probably.”

Iris looked like she might levitate.

They wished her luck.

Paul grinned.

“Go hit one out.”

Luca offered a handshake. Hailey took it.

“Have a good one.”

Iris hugged the bat to her chest.

“You’re definitely homering now.”

Hailey smirked.

“Then I guess I better.”

She backed through the doorway, then turned and disappeared into game mode.

The warmth stayed.

…but the access window had closed.

For now.

Batting Practice

Walking through the tunnel and onto the field felt different from entering the clubhouse.

The clubhouse had been private.

The field was sacred.

The grass looked too perfect to step on. The stadium, still only partly filled, hummed with workers, music checks, and scattered early fans filtering into seats.

Iris slowed instinctively the moment her shoes touched the warning track.

Paul did not.

He’d done this enough times that he walked with the casual confidence of a man who knew where not to stand.

Luca reached the tunnel with them, then was gently stopped by an attendant.

“Sir, no food on the field.”

Luca looked at the hot dog.
Looked at the field.
Looked back at the hot dog.

“I’ll be two minutes.”

Paul kept walking.

“Unbelievable.”

Luca took a bite.

“It’s a very good hot dog.”

Even Iris laughed.

Waiting near the dugout steps was Cheryl Bennett.

She spotted Paul immediately.

“There he is.”

She walked over and hugged him with the ease of an old friend.

“Still causing trouble?”

“I prefer ‘maintaining presence,’” Paul said.

She snorted.

Then she shook Luca’s hand and welcomed Iris warmly.

“Anyone who can survive a full clubhouse morning gets honorary credentials.”

Iris nearly forgot how to answer.

Batting practice had none of the clubhouse looseness.

The players were cordial, but distant now.

They moved in rhythms:

• stretch
• swing
• retrieve
• talk briefly with coaches
• repeat

No one was rude.

They were simply working.

Hailey waved once from the cage, then went right back to business.

Felix Huffman yelled “HOT DOG MAN MADE IT” when Luca finally arrived.

Then she resumed hitting.

Most of the conversation now happened with coaches and staff.

The subject of the day was obvious:

Whitney McCarthy and her forkball.

Cheryl Bennett folded her arms and watched swings while she talked.

“It’s a real pitch,” she admitted.

“Late drop. Good disguise. Gets hitters to chase under it.”

Paul nodded.

“She worries you?”

“She interests me,” Bennett said.

That sounded like manager language for yes.

Iris listened carefully as Bennett continued.

“We’re emphasizing three things.”

She held up a finger.

“First- make her bring it up. If it starts low, let it go.”

Second finger.

“Second- use the middle of the field. Don’t yank at it trying to be heroes.”

Third finger.

“Third- get ahead in counts and force her to throw something else.”

Luca nodded.

“Discipline.”

“Exactly,” Bennett said.

“Everybody wants to hit the nasty pitch. Smart hitters punish the mistake instead.”

Paul smiled.

“That’s why you’re managing.”

“That and my charm.”

Hailey stepped out between rounds and took a sip of water.

She came over briefly.

“How’s the view?”

“Incredible,” Iris said.

Hailey smiled, but her hands were moving constantly- tape, gloves, routine.

Even while talking, she was preparing.

That struck Iris more than any autograph could have.

Soon enough, staff began signaling.

The Beasts’ window was over.

Buckets moved. Screens rolled away. Coaches started herding players toward the dugout.

The Dragons would need the field.

The mood sharpened another notch.

This was the last soft moment before competition.

Hailey came over first.

She hugged Iris tightly.

Then Paul.

Then Luca.

This one felt different from the clubhouse hugs.

Less social.

More grounding.

Paul understood immediately.

“She’s nervous,” he said quietly after she stepped away.

Iris blinked.

“She gets nervous?”

Paul looked toward Hailey taking one last breath before heading in.

“Every game.”

Iris stared.

That almost amazed her more than the talent.

Luca spoke softly.

“Means she cares.”

Iris nodded.

…and because of everything she’d seen that day, she understood.

Being elite did not erase being human.

Cheryl Bennett walked past on her way in.

“You three enjoy the suite.”

Then she pointed at Iris.

“…and don’t leave after the game.”

Iris straightened.

“The cage?”

Bennett grinned.

“The cage.”

Then she was gone.

Paul led them back through the tunnel as stadium noise slowly rose above them.

The private world was closing.

The public show was about to begin.

Iris clutched the signed bat the whole way.

Chapter 9

Zasaramel’s House

At Zasaramel’s house, the day had already split into two different worlds.

Inside, Raven and Roxy had arrived to babysit Kyren and Souren. The babies were fed, changed, and in the content stage where they seemed peaceful one second and ready to declare war the next.

Raven handled them naturally, as if she had always belonged in the room.

Roxy tried to project the same confidence, though she still approached the babies with the caution of someone dealing with tiny royalty whose moods could change without warning.

Zasaramel stood near the kitchen table, arms folded.

“I can stay,” he offered.

No one looked at him.

“I mean it,” he added. “I can help babysit.”

Ruby was fixing one of her earrings in the hallway mirror.

“You’re going.”

Joanna, somewhere in the bedroom, called out:

“He’s absolutely going.”

Zas frowned.

“I do not wish to go.”

“That’s why you need to,” Ruby said.

Joanna and Ruby had taken the occasion seriously.

Very seriously.

Ruby emerged first, dressed head to toe in Dragons gear but filtered through her own style-ripped jeans, layered chains, black lipstick, and a customized team top cut and reworked into something that looked rebellious and expensive at the same time.

Then Joanna appeared.

She had chosen chaos.

Bright Dragons colors, oversized beads, glitter on one cheek, and a foam Dragon head perched proudly on top of her own.

She spread her arms.

“Game day.”

Zas blinked slowly.

“I married two lunatics.”

“You married very fun women,” Joanna corrected.

Arel-Sin came out next, wearing neatly fitted Dragons gear he clearly had not chosen himself.

He looked miserable.

“I look ridiculous.”

“You look handsome,” Ruby said.

“I look purchased.”

“That too,” Joanna replied.

Then they turned to Zas.

He was wearing a foam Dragon head as well.

The sight of a towering, battle-scarred warrior built like a fortress wearing oversized novelty headgear nearly ended Joanna on the spot.

Ruby had to grab the wall laughing.

Zas stood motionless.

“I hate this.”

“You’re adorable,” Ruby said.

“I am not.”

“You are,” Joanna said, “and at the stadium we’re finding you a jersey that actually fits.”

Zas muttered something in a language no one else understood.

It sounded ancient and irritated.

As the room settled, Zas asked the question he’d been carrying all morning.

“Why do you care so much for one meaningless game?”

Ruby gasped theatrically.

Joanna clutched her foam head.

“Meaningless?”

Zas gestured.

“There are one hundred and sixty-two of them.”

“One hundred and sixty-two opportunities,” Ruby corrected.

“It counts in the standings,” Joanna added.

“…and,” Ruby said, narrowing her eyes, “I am not letting Paul outdo this family.”

That answer, more than any baseball logic, made sense to Zas.

He nodded once.

“Now I understand.”

Before leaving, Joanna and Ruby each pressed money into Raven’s hand.

Raven immediately tried to give it back.

“No.”

“You’re taking it,” Ruby said.

“I’m already here.”

“…and now you’re here with money,” Joanna replied.

Raven sighed, defeated by generosity once again.

Roxy, meanwhile, had taken position near the doorway.

She waited until Arel-Sin looked at her.

Then stuck her tongue out.

Arel-Sin frowned.

“What was that for?”

“For bragging all week about your VIP tickets.”

“They are VIP tickets.”

“You’re still annoying.”

She stuck her tongue out again for emphasis.

Arel-Sin tried to look offended, but he was smiling before he realized it.

A horn sounded outside.

Paul’s hired car had arrived.

Ruby clapped once.

“Alright, dragons. Move.”

Joanna grabbed snacks she’d already packed despite the existence of stadium food.

Arel-Sin groaned his way toward the door.

Zas paused in the living room, still wearing the foam Dragon head.

He looked back toward the babies, then toward Raven and Roxy, then toward the open door.

“This better be worth it.”

Joanna kissed his cheek on the way past.

“It won’t be,” she said cheerfully. “That’s sports.”

They bundled out toward the waiting car as the afternoon sun caught the courtyard outside.

Behind them, Raven lifted Kyren gently while Roxy tried to make Souren laugh.

Inside one world, the game was beginning.

Inside the other, life simply continued.

Dragon Yard

By the time they reached the suite level, the stadium had fully awakened.

Music rolled through the concourses. Vendors shouted. The smell of fried food, beer, grilled meat, and sugar hung in the air like part of the architecture. Everywhere people moved with urgency despite having nowhere immediate to be.

Paul led them down the corridor like a man returning to his second home.

When the suite door opened, noise and laughter spilled out.

It was full.

Mostly locals- friends of Paul’s from Los Auras, El Requeson, Rosarito, and surrounding areas. Some wore Dragons gear. Some wore Beasts gear. Some wore neutral clothes but clearly intended to eat and drink like professionals.

Among them was an IWC wrestler the group immediately recognized, who raised a drink in greeting.

“Business contacts,” Paul said casually.

“No one believes that,” Ruby replied.

Paul looked the family over and burst out laughing.

“This is tremendous.”

He pointed at Joanna’s foam Dragon head.

“That’s commitment.”

Then at Ruby’s reworked punk Dragons look.

“That’s intimidation.”

Then at Arel-Sin.

“That’s child abuse.”

Arel-Sin folded his arms.

“I agree.”

Finally Paul looked at Zasaramel.

A giant man built like a fortress, wearing novelty Dragon headgear and looking deeply offended by existence itself.

Paul nearly lost balance laughing.

“You look magnificent.”

“I look cursed,” Zas replied.

Paul gestured dramatically toward the field.

“Welcome to paradise.”

Zas looked out over the diamond.

“I watched fifteen baseball games in preparation for this.”

Paul nodded approvingly.

“Excellent.”

“I fell asleep during all fifteen.”

The suite broke.

Paul pointed at him.

“Tonight’s different.”

“How?”

“Because I am here.”

That got another laugh.

Even Zas let out the briefest sound resembling amusement.

Near the rail stood Luca and Iris, already settled with food and drinks.

Paul made introductions.

Luca stepped forward, shook Zas’s hand, and immediately recalculated several things about the world.

“…Good lord.”

Zas tilted his head.

Luca gestured vaguely at Zas’s entire frame.

“You should be down there hitting forty home runs.”

Zas gave the smallest smile anyone in the room had seen all day.

“You are kind.”

Ruby gasped.

“He smiled.”

Joanna clutched her foam head.

“We got a smile!”

Zas’ expression vanished immediately.

“You imagined it.”

Zas looked around the packed stadium.

The noise was rising steadily as first pitch approached.

“I will admit,” he said, “this place has much energy.”

Then he noticed sections of blue scattered throughout the stands.

“So many Beasts supporters?”

Paul spread his arms proudly.

“Because we are the better team.”

Ruby snorted.

“No. Because the Dragons stink.”

Paul grinned.

She continued.

“If the visiting fans show up, they can take over half the building.”

Arel-Sin nodded.

“Otherwise it’s empty.”

Joanna added cheerfully:

“We’re emotionally complex here.”

Zas frowned as he processed that.

“You mean… your own people do not come when the team struggles?”

Ruby shrugged.

“Sometimes.”

“That is disloyal.”

There was no anger in his voice.

Only genuine confusion.

To him, allegiance was allegiance.

You did not abandon your banner because the season was poor.

Paul leaned beside him.

“That’s because you come from a warrior culture.”

“…and this is not?”

Paul gestured toward a man spilling nacho cheese onto his own jersey three rows below.

“No.”

The suite erupted.

Even Luca laughed openly.

Ruby stepped in.

“It’s expensive. People get tired. Some fans are cynical. Some don’t trust ownership. Some just don’t want to spend money to watch a bad team lose.”

Zas considered this seriously.

“So they punish the rulers.”

Paul pointed at Ruby.

“She gets it.”

Joanna raised a finger.

“Also some people just have plans.”

Zas looked scandalized.

“Plans?”

“On a game day,” Joanna said solemnly.

Below them, the teams were now taking the field.

The Beasts in their away gold/blue look.

The Dragons in their bright home royal blue colors.

The crowd volume rose another level.

Paul rubbed his hands together.

“Now,” he said, “you are about to understand.”

Zas folded his arms.

“I remain skeptical.”

Iris smiled.

“Give it one inning.”

Zas looked down at the field.

Then at the thousands of people roaring for reasons he still only partly understood.

“…Very well.”

The teams took the field in colors bold enough to announce themselves before the scoreboard ever could.

The visiting Beasts wore gold caps and gold jerseys with blue pants- loud, confident, impossible to ignore.

The home Los Auras Dragons wore royal blue caps and jerseys with sky blue pants, bright enough to look optimistic even when the standings were not.

Paul approved of both uniforms.

…but only one emotionally.

Paul was already leaning forward in his seat before the first pitch.

Not casually leaning.

Not comfortably leaning.

The kind of lean that suggested if he wanted the Beasts badly enough, he could physically help them.

Ruby and Joanna had decided subtlety was for cowards.

They stood near the rail of the suite, shouting for the Dragons with full theatrical commitment.

“COME ON, WHITNEY!”

“SET THE TONE!”

Joanna’s foam Dragon head bobbed wildly as she yelled.

Ruby cupped her hands and booed every Beasts warmup toss with artistic venom.

Paul looked offended.

“You are guests.”

“We are resistance,” Ruby replied.

Luca and Iris watched with genuine enthusiasm.

Luca appreciated the crowd energy, the anticipation, the little tactical movements happening before each pitch.

Iris simply loved all of it.

The uniforms.
The sounds.
The possibility.

Arel-Sin sat down, sighed, and pulled out his phone.

Within seconds he was deep into a game no one else could see.

To him, this made more sense than baseball.

Zasaramel had stood for the first batter.

He watched strike three.

He remained standing for the second hitter.

He watched strike three again.

He considered the field.

Considered the crowd.

Considered the game’s priorities.

Then quietly walked to the back bench of the suite and lay down.

Joanna noticed instantly.

She stormed over, snatched Arel-Sin’s phone in one motion, and jabbed a finger at Zas.

“No napping!”

Zas opened one eye.

“Nothing has happened.”

“Two strikeouts happened.”

“That supports my argument.”

Ruby was laughing too hard to help.

Arel-Sin reached for his phone.

“My game was more interesting.”

“No devices either,” Joanna said.

“This is tyranny,” Arel-Sin muttered.

Then Hailey Zlydasyk stepped in.

Even the suite changed a little.

Paul rose halfway from his seat instinctively.

“There she is.”

Iris straightened.

Luca noticed Paul suddenly looked ten years younger.

First pitch.

Ball.

Second pitch.

Ball.

Paul nodded approvingly.

“Good eye.”

Third pitch.

A strike at the knees.

Paul frowned as if personally wronged.

Fourth pitch.

Hailey uncoiled.

The crack was perfect.

Sharp. Loud. True.

Everyone in the suite reacted.

Paul was already celebrating.

Then the ball flew directly at the shortstop.

One step.

Glove up.

Caught.

Lineout.

The stadium groaned.

Paul froze mid-cheer.

Then slowly sat back down.

“…That was criminal.”

Ruby cackled.

“Great contact though!”

Hailey jogged back toward the dugout without visible emotion.

Iris shook her head.

“She hit that so well.”

Luca nodded.

“Sometimes doing everything right still gets you out.”

Zas, from the bench, had heard enough to comment without opening his eyes.

“Now that sounds like life.”

The second inning began with what looked like the Dragons’ first clean breakthrough.

C.J. Cron turned on a pitch from Suzanne Encarnacion and smoked a liner into shallow center-right. It came off the bat with the sound of a guaranteed single.

Felix Huffman had other ideas.

She exploded across the grass, covered impossible ground, then launched herself full extension. Her glove snapped shut inches above the turf.

Out.

The stadium gasped.

Then came the replay, which only made it look more absurd.

Zasaramel clapped immediately.

Ruby and Joanna slowly turned toward him with identical looks of betrayal.

“What?” Zas asked.

“You do not applaud them,” Ruby said.

“It was an excellent display of skill,” Zas replied calmly. “Why would one not acknowledge excellence?”

“Because she robbed our guy,” Joanna said.

Paul, a few seats down, grinned into his drink.

Iris leaned forward over the railing. “That was actually insane.”

Luca nodded once. “Yeah. That’s big league stuff.”

…and then the game changed.

Not on the scoreboard.

In the air.

Whitney McCarthy, making her first start, retired the first nine Buffalo hitters in order.

One inning became two.

Two became three.

The Beasts- who had swaggered through batting practice, joked in the clubhouse, and looked like they owned every room they entered- now looked confused.

Her forkball was brutal.

It began at the knees and disappeared below bats. Padre Grimes swung over one so badly he nearly spun himself around. Crock froze on another. Felix Huffman fouled one straight back, then took a cutter on the outside corner she clearly hadn’t expected.

That cutter worried Paul most.

“The forkball was on the scouting report,” he muttered. “That cutter was not.”

Whitney worked quickly, almost casually. No wasted motion. No panic. No signs that she understood she was doing this to one of the league’s best lineups.

She simply kept getting outs.

By the middle of the third inning, Paul had stopped sitting.

He stood at the front of the suite, arms folded, staring like he could solve her by force of will.

Then, against every instinct of baseball superstition, he said it.

“Could she throw a perfect game?”

The suite went silent.

Joanna wheeled around so fast her foam Dragon head nearly flew off.

“Do not say the p-word out loud!”

Paul blinked. “Perfect?”

She pointed at him accusingly. “You know exactly what you did.”

“I absolutely want to jinx her,” Paul said. “I’m trying to help.”

Ruby nodded. “That is the only acceptable explanation.”

Paul spread his arms. “Then you’re welcome.”

Iris was trying to stay calm but kept glancing at the scoreboard after every out.

Nine up. Nine down.

“She’s really good,” Iris said quietly.

“She’s locating everything,” Luca replied, “and Buffalo’s pressing now.”

“Can they solve her?”

“They can,” Luca said. “Question is when.”

At the back of the suite, Zasaramel and Arel-Sin had found the part of baseball they genuinely understood.

Food.

They sat with trays full of stadium offerings: garlic fries, loaded nachos, sausages, oversized drinks, and a helmet sundae Arel-Sin had insisted on getting because it came in a collectible plastic batting helmet.

“This game remains mostly inactivity,” Zas observed, biting into a hot dog.

Arel-Sin nodded, “but the snacks are elite.”

They fist-bumped solemnly.

From the front railing came another roar as Whitney struck out Everett with a forkball in the dirt.

Zas glanced over.

“Has something occurred?”

“She struck out another Beast,” Ruby shouted.

Zas shrugged and returned to his fries.

“Wake me when there is battle.”

By the fourth inning, the mood in the suite had changed from festive to strained.

Whitney McCarthy was still perfect.

The Beasts, who usually looked like they knew exactly what they were doing, now looked like a team trying not to admit they were annoyed.

John “Padre” Grimes led off and got exactly the pitch he thought he wanted- a forkball that floated high enough to tempt him.

He rolled it weakly to second.

One out.

Paul made a noise that sounded like a man swallowing despair.

Then John Crock stepped in.

He did not stand in the batter’s box.

He occupied it.

Crock shuffled forward until he was practically over the plate, front foot daringly close, elbows wide, chin lifted.

He stared at Whitney.

The message was obvious.

Come inside. Move me.

Whitney, who looked half his size and about twenty years younger, seemed unimpressed.

First pitch.

A four-seam fastball right down the middle.

Strike one.

Crock never moved.

He stepped out immediately.

“That was rude,” he muttered.

Paul grabbed the railing.

“He was taking!”

Ruby laughed.

“That’s on him.”

Second pitch.

Whitney tried to bury the forkball.

Instead, she yanked it.

The ball sailed high and tight, whistling just over Crock’s head.

The crowd erupted.

Crock froze for a beat, then slowly stepped out of the box.

He said a few words toward the mound.

Nothing screamed.

Nothing theatrical.

…but the tone was unmistakable.

Jose Trevino stepped between them immediately, palms out, trying to cool things down.

Whitney said something back.

Short.

Sharp.

The microphones never caught it.

…but those close enough later said it was one word.

“Old.”

Whitney had not meant it as provocation.

John Crock absolutely took it as one.

He charged.

The stadium detonated.

Crock reached the mound fast, got an arm around Whitney’s neck in a clumsy headlock, and landed one short punch before she reacted.

Whitney pivoted instinctively. Used Crock’s momentum against him.

Dropped her hips.

Turned her shoulder.

…and hip-tossed Crock clean onto the dirt.

The suite exploded.

Zas stood up so fast he nearly launched his food.

“Oh!”

Arel-Sin leapt to the railing.

“YES!”

Zas pointed like a proud instructor.

“Excellent balance!”

Then both dugouts emptied.

Bullpens poured in late, as tradition required.

There was shoving, grabbing, yelling, players pretending to be held back, coaches trying to separate people while also yelling themselves, and one bewildered umpire repeatedly blowing a whistle no one respected.

Felix Huffman was in the middle of three different arguments at once.

Bucky Leon simply held two people apart with one arm each.

Hailey Zlydasyk dragged Padre Grimes away from someone he did not need to fight.

Kevin Pillar somehow got involved before he was even in the game.

Mickey Moniak, trying to pivot in the chaos, rolled an ankle and went down swearing.

After several long minutes, the umpires finally restored something resembling civilization.

Crock was ejected.

He pointed at no one in particular as he left.

“I regret nothing!”

The Beasts bench applauded sarcastically.

Bucky Leon grabbed a helmet and bat and headed in to replace him.

Whitney remained on the mound.

Her nose was bloodied.

A bruise was already forming around one eye.

Cheryl Bennett, watching from the Buffalo dugout, muttered:

“She better be concussed or this is embarrassing.”

…but Whitney insisted she was fine.

The Dragons medical staff checked her quickly.

The trainer asked if she could see. Whitney answered by firing a strike into Trevino’s glove.

She stayed in.

Moniak was replaced in center by Kevin Pillar.

Bucky Leon inherited Crock’s war.

He lined the next pitch screaming down the line.

Half the Beasts were already clapping.

The third-base umpire signaled foul by inches.

Paul collapsed into his chair.

Ruby screamed with joy.

Bucky stared at the line for a full second, then reset.

Two pitches later, Whitney struck him out with a cutter at the hands.

Then Hailey came up.

Bruised rookie ace.

Superstar shortstop.

Perfect game intact.

The stadium rose.

What followed was twelve pitches of warfare.

Hailey fouled off fastballs.

Took forkballs low.

Spoiled a cutter inside.

Whitney missed once.

Hailey missed once.

Neither blinked.

Pitch twelve:

Forkball starting middle.

Diving late.

Hailey swung over it.

Strike three.

Whitney screamed into her glove.

The black eye.
The blood on her lip.
The fist pump against the sky.

It was captured instantly.

An image people would remember.

Paul had both hands on his head.

“I hate everything.”

Joanna was standing on furniture.

“She is HER!”

Ruby was nearly crying laughing.

Luca exhaled slowly.

“That kid’s real.”

Iris stared at Whitney like she’d seen a myth born in front of her.

At the back, Zas nodded solemnly.

“She has warrior spirit.”

Arel-Sin grinned.

“Can baseball always be like this?”

Zas looked at the field chaos, the roaring crowd, the bloodied pitcher standing tall.

“…Now I understand the sport.”

The fifth inning began with the umpires standing near home plate and pointing sternly toward both dugouts.

Warnings issued.

Any more trouble, and someone else would be gone.

It was necessary.

It was sensible.

It also drained some of the electricity from the building.

The game, which had briefly felt like myth, returned to being baseball.

Suzanne Encarnacion took her warmup tosses and immediately frowned.

She flexed her hand once.

Then again.

Paul noticed before the broadcast did.

“No.”

A trainer jogged out.

They spoke briefly.

The trainer looked once at the dugout and made the universal signal everyone hated.

Bullpen.

Paul slumped like a man who had been informed winter was permanent.

“A blister? During a fight?”

Ruby shrugged.

“Combat has costs.”

Paul ignored her.

Buffalo called for Quinn McCracken, the two-way long reliever.

Paul was beside himself.

“We had the ace!”

Luca, still calm, said:

“You now have another professional pitcher.”

“That is not the same thing.”

McCracken entered throwing fire.

She struck out Brandon Drury on three vicious pitches—fastball away, cutter in, then a splitter that vanished.

Paul recovered instantly.

“She’s better than the ace.”

Joanna laughed.

“You are impossible.”

McCracken then got ahead of Jo Adell 0-2 in a hurry.

One foul ball was ripped high into the lower bowl.

The cameras followed it, as they always did.

A scramble.

Hands reaching.

Bodies leaning.

Then the big screen found the winner.

A man, Nicky McCrain, grinning proudly while yanking the ball away from a little girl who was already crying.

The stadium turned on him in one unified roar.

Boos thundered from every section.

Even Dragons fans and Beasts fans found common cause.

Everyone in the suite reacted.

Paul stood in outrage.

“Oh no.”

Ruby winced.

“That is terrible optics.”

Joanna covered her mouth.

“He stole from a child?”

Arel-Sin leaned forward.

“That is bold.”

Iris looked disgusted.

Luca squinted at the screen.

Only Zasaramel did something different.

He said nothing.

He simply stared at the screen.

Then began scanning the stands below with unnerving focus.

No one noticed him leave.

Not at first.

The at-bat continued.

McCracken struck out Adell.

Jose Trevino came up.

Paul was still ranting about Encarnacion leaving when he suddenly stopped.

“…Where’s the big guy?”

They all turned.

The seat was empty.

Ruby blinked.

“Where did he go?”

Paul’s eyes widened.

“The ball kid.”

He looked toward the concourse.

“Oh no. I cannot have a lawsuit!”

Luca stood immediately.

“I’ll get him.”

Paul grabbed his arm.

“Please do. I do not need my suite associated with vigilantism.”

Luca was already gone.

At a concession stand, Nicky McCrain was basking in his own notoriety.

He held the foul ball in one hand while telling strangers some version of events that made him sound heroic.

Then a shadow fell over him.

Zasaramel stood there.

“You took from a child.”

Nicky looked up.

Then up further.

“…and?”

“That is dishonourable.”

Nicky laughed.

“It’s a foul ball. Free-for-all.”

He shoved the ball lightly toward Zas’s chest.

“Welcome to sports.”

Zas reached for it.

Fast.

Nicky reacted faster than expected.

He pivoted, trapped the wrist, shifted angle, and broke contact cleanly with practiced movement.

Zas paused.

For the first time, he looked intrigued.

“You have training.”

Nicky grinned.

“Peace.”

Zas nodded once.

“Useful.”

Then his expression hardened again.

“Still dishonourable.”

Before it could escalate, Luca stepped in.

“Alright. That’s enough.”

Security was already converging.

Luca steps between them and Zas.

“Easy. He’s with me.”

Shows badge briefly.

One guard squints.

“Montano?”

“Yeah.”

“You still owe me for breaking our tackling dummy.”

Luca exhales.

“Put it on my tab.”

Tension drops.

Nicky recognized Luca first.

“Of course.”

Luca ignored him.

He looked at Zas.

“Come on.”

Zas held Nicky’s gaze another second.

Then gave him one long, disapproving stare that somehow felt heavier than shouting.

He turned and left with Luca.

As they walked back, Luca finally asked:

“You were going to fight him over a baseball?”

Zas answered seriously.

“I was going to correct conduct.”

Luca laughed despite himself.

“That’s not how stadiums work.”

Zas frowned.

“Then stadiums need improvement.”

By the time they returned, Quinn McCracken had retired the side.

Paul was waiting at the door.

“Well?”

Luca walked past him.

“No lawsuit.”

Paul exhaled in relief.

Zas resumed his seat.

Arel-Sin handed him fries without a word.

Zas accepted them solemnly.

The game continued.

From the dugout, Hailey Zlydasyk had seen enough of the video board to understand what happened.

She hadn’t caught every detail.

She didn’t need to.

A crying little girl.
An adult holding the foul ball like a trophy.
Thirty thousand people booing in perfect agreement.

That told the story.

Hailey turned to a clubhouse attendant.

“Find out where that kid is.”

The attendant blinked.

“Now, please.”

Hailey already knew what she wanted to do.

A signed bat.
A jersey.
Field access after the game if possible.

Something big enough that the girl would remember kindness more than embarrassment.

She started toward the tunnel to speak with team staff.

Then saw two Dragons employees already jogging the same direction.

Hailey smiled.

“Good.”

Within minutes, both organizations had quietly converged behind the scenes.

The home Los Auras Dragons staff were first to act, because it was their stadium and their fan.

The visiting Beasts staff insisted on contributing.

Nobody argued.

Some things were bigger than uniforms.

A plan formed quickly:

• signed bat from Hailey
• Dragons jersey of the girl’s choice
• Beasts cap and merchandise bag
• baseballs signed by both teams
• escorted field access after the game
• chance to run the bases
• team photo with both clubs
• printed and signed copy mailed later

Even the usually cynical operations people admitted it was a strong package.

None of this was public yet.

The crowd had moved on.

The game continued.

Paul, however, had already begun planning independently.

“If no one fixes this,” he muttered, “I’m buying that child a suite.”

Ruby looked at him.

“That might be the first noble thing you’ve said all day.”

“I contain multitudes.”

An usher found the girl and her family two sections over from where the ball had landed.

They expected maybe an apology.

Instead, they were escorted to guest services.

The parents looked confused.

The girl still had tear marks on her face.

Then she was told both teams wanted to meet her after the game.

She stopped crying instantly.

Hailey finished the inning, grabbed her glove, and headed back onto the field.

Pauline Sutter passed her.

“You starting a charity now?”

Hailey shrugged.

“Just correcting bad behavior.”

Sutter nodded.

“Respect.”

In the home dugout, Julie Benjamin heard about the plan and immediately asked if she could be in the photo.

Whitney McCarthy, black eye darkening by the minute, said:

“Give her my rookie ball too.”

The clubhouse manager replied:

“You don’t have a rookie ball.”

Whitney thought a second.

“Then find one.”

By the sixth inning, the stadium had forgotten the man who stole the ball.

By night’s end, everyone would remember the girl who ran the bases while both teams applauded.

…and that was exactly how it should be.

After Zasaramel walked away, Nicky McCrain stood in the concourse holding the foul ball like a prize he had no intention of surrendering.

His daughter stood beside him, arms folded.

“Hails,” he said, still pleased with himself, “that was veteran positioning.”

Hailey McCrain looked unimpressed.

“You stole it from a little girl.”

“I secured it in open competition.”

“You snatched it.”

“Semantics.”

A passing fan, still heated from the replay, pointed at Nicky.

“Buddy, give the kid the ball.”

Nicky pointed right back.

“Mind your own inning.”

The fan stared for a second, decided this was not worth his evening, and walked off muttering.

Hails looked at her father like she had never met him before.

“Dad.”

“What?”

“You’re embarrassing.”

“That’s a strong word.”

“It’s the right word.”

Nicky’s expression shifted.

He had an idea.

The look was familiar enough that Hails immediately dreaded it.

“We’re not doing whatever face that is,” she said.

“We,” Nicky replied proudly, “are about to leverage an asset.”

“It’s a baseball.”

“It’s a negotiation piece.”

Nicky strode to guest services with the swagger of a man who believed himself three moves ahead.

Hails trailed behind in open disbelief.

The attendant smiled professionally.

“How can I help you?”

Nicky casually placed the foul ball on the counter.

“I understand there was an unfortunate misunderstanding involving a child.”

The attendant blinked.

“Yes.”

“I’m prepared to return this ball,” Nicky said, “in exchange for a modest goodwill package. Meet-and-greet access. Signed merchandise. Maybe some premium swag. Something nice for me and Hails.”

Hails covered her face.

The attendant looked at the ball.

Then at Nicky.

Then back at the screen behind them.

“Sir… the little girl is already meeting both teams after the game.”

Nicky’s smile faded.

“She’s what?”

“She’ll be meeting the Dragons and Beasts, receiving signed items, running the bases, and taking a photo.”

A beat.

“We also believe a commemorative copy of the photo is being mailed.”

Hails burst out laughing.

Nicky stared at the ball in front of him.

For once in his life, he had overplayed a hand.

Hails leaned in.

“Dad. Give it back.”

Nicky straightened.

“I still want a jersey.”

The attendant didn’t even blink.

“The best I can offer is another baseball and a free hot dog voucher.”

Nicky thought for exactly one second.

“What toppings?”

Hails groaned.

Two minutes later:

• the original foul ball was returned to stadium staff
• Nicky had a replacement souvenir ball
• a hot dog voucher sat in his pocket like a war medal

He walked away trying to preserve dignity.

“This was always the plan.”

Hails shook her head.

“No it wasn’t.”

“It was adjacent to the plan.”

“You got bribed with lunch.”

“I negotiated value.”

They walked in silence for a few steps.

Then Hails said quietly:

“You should’ve just given it back.”

Nicky glanced at her.

Maybe he knew she was right.

Maybe he didn’t want to say so.

Instead, he held up the voucher.

“Free hot dog.”

Hails rolled her eyes.

“…Can I get fries too?”

Nicky smiled.

“Now you’re thinking like family.”

By the seventh inning, the game had become tense in the specific way only baseball can be tense.

Still scoreless.

Still unresolved.

Still one pitch away from changing completely.

…and still, impossibly, Whitney McCarthy had not allowed a baserunner.

The black eye had deepened into a dramatic violet shadow.

Dried blood still marked the edge of one nostril.

She wore both like decorations.

…but now there were signs.

Longer breaths between pitches.
More time rubbing the ball.
A slight drop in tempo.
The faint stiffness of a body beginning to negotiate with exhaustion.

Paul noticed immediately.

“She’s tiring.”

Ruby crossed her arms.

“She’s transcending.”

John “Padre” Grimes led off and looked nothing like himself.

He took one pitch.

Then lazily lifted the next into shallow right.

Routine out.

Paul stared in disbelief.

“He looked bored.”

Luca shook his head.

“He looked beat.”

Bucky Leon came up next, trying to provide the veteran answer Crock had not.

Whitney got ahead quickly.

Forkball low.

Fastball edge.

Then she doubled up with another forkball.

Leon swung so hard and missed so completely that the bat flew out of his hands and helicoptered toward the on-deck circle.

The stadium gasped.

Then laughed.

Even Dragons fans applauded the absurdity.

Zas stood.

“Now that is entertainment.”

Arel-Sin nearly fell over laughing.

Then came Hailey Zlydasyk.

The suite quieted.

Paul stopped pacing.

Iris leaned over the rail.

Luca narrowed his eyes.

This felt important.

Hailey stepped in with a different posture than her first two at-bats.

No patience now.

No feeling-out process.

She had decided to attack.

Whitney knew it instantly.

First pitch:

Forkball starting belt-high.

Diving into the dirt.

Hailey chased and missed badly.

She stepped out and muttered to herself.

Paul groaned.

“She baited her.”

Second pitch:

A fastball right down the middle.

Hailey froze.

Strike two.

Now she muttered louder.

Ruby laughed.

“She’s in prison.”

Down 0-2, Hailey finally stabilized.

She fouled off a cutter.

Then a fastball.

Then another cutter inside.

The at-bat changed shape.

Whitney looked annoyed.

Hailey looked alive.

Iris whispered:

“She’s timing her now.”

Luca nodded.

“She’s making her work.”

Paul gripped the railing.

“Yes. Yes.”

Then came the next pitch.

A high fastball.

Too high.

Ball, everyone thought.

It popped Trevino’s glove near the letters.

The plate umpire punched the air.

“Strike three!”

The stadium split instantly.

Dragons fans roared.

Beasts fans howled.

Hailey stood frozen for half a second.

Then turned.

“What?!”

The umpire said nothing.

Hailey took two steps toward him.

“That’s above the zone and you know it!”

Still nothing.

Now the frustration of seven innings poured out of her all at once.

She fired off a few choice words that made Iris’ eyes widen and made Paul instinctively nod in approval.

Then Hailey slammed the bat aside and stormed toward the dugout.

The umpire remained stone-faced.

…but he remembered every syllable.

Paul was incandescent.

“That pitch was in another postal code!”

Ruby smirked.

“Should’ve hit it.”

Joanna pointed at Whitney.

“She earned the call.”

Luca exhaled slowly.

“That’s what happens when a pitcher owns the day. Borderline pitches become strikes.”

Iris looked torn.

“That still feels unfair.”

“It is,” Luca said, “and it’s also baseball.”

Whitney caught the throw back from Trevino.

No celebration.

No glare.

No words.

Just one long breath.

Then she walked behind the mound, black eye shining under the lights.

Six outs from immortality.

The seventh inning stretch arrived like another rule no one had explained to Zasaramel.

One moment everyone was tense, locked into Whitney McCarthy’s perfect game bid.

The next moment, thousands of people stood up voluntarily for reasons that seemed unrelated to baseball.

Zas looked around in suspicion.

“Why are they rising?”

“It’s the stretch,” Joanna said.

“The what?”

“The stretch.”

“That explains nothing.”

The scoreboard lit up with lights and camera graphics.

At midfield- though calling it midfield in baseball would upset purists- appeared local influencer and entertainment personality Gabriela Cordova.

She waved dramatically and launched into an aggressively flamenco rendition of Take Me Out to the Ball Game.

There was hand clapping.

There was heel stomping.

There was a guitar flourish nobody had asked for.

There was at least one note that seemed to challenge physics.

Ruby and Joanna sang along with total sincerity.

They knew every word.

Paul did too, except where tradition demanded treason.

“Take me out to the ball game…”
“Take me out with the crowd…”
“Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jack…”

Then came the line.

“For it’s root, root, root for the—”

Paul bellowed:

“BEASTS!”

The rest of the suite shouted:

“DRAGONS!”

Paul pointed accusingly.

“This is harassment.”

Luca watched the flamenco arrangement in stunned silence.

“This is… normal here?”

Ruby nodded proudly.

“Very.”

Luca looked unconvinced.

Zas had folded his arms.

“You stop competition to sing a children’s market song?”

“It’s tradition,” Joanna said.

“That is often the excuse given for madness.”

Arel-Sin, meanwhile, had focused on the only important phrase.

“What are Cracker Jacks?”

“A snack,” Iris said.

“…and there’s a toy inside,” Paul added.

Arel-Sin’s eyes widened.

“I want one.”

Paul returned triumphantly with a box.

Arel-Sin opened it immediately.

Inside was a QR code.

He held it up.

“…Where is the toy?”

“It’s digital now,” Iris said.

“What does that mean?”

“It means disappointment,” Luca answered.

Arel-Sin looked betrayed.

“This sport lies.”

As the laughter faded, the scoreboard graphics changed again.

The crowd straightened.

Hands went to hearts.

The opening notes of This Great Western Land rang through the stadium.

The unofficial patriotic anthem of the RUWS.

It was sweeping. Romantic. Triumphant.

A song about taming the frontier, building fortunes, and how the West Coast had “made everyone richer.”

Many in the crowd sang with genuine emotion.

Some belted it with beer-soaked conviction.

Paul sang proudly.

Ruby and Joanna sang because everyone else was.

Luca stood respectfully quiet.

Iris mouthed only the parts she knew.

Zas stood still.

Very still.

He knew the real stories behind those lyrics.

The tribes pushed aside.

The lands seized.

The rail lines built on broken immigrant backs.

The wealth celebrated by people who inherited it later.

Even without that history, patriotic chest-thumping had never appealed to him.

He did not hate the crowd for singing.

…but he would not join them.

Luca noticed.

“You alright?”

Zas nodded once.

“I prefer songs that tell the truth.”

Luca said nothing for a moment.

Then:

“Fair.”

The anthem ended.

The cheers resumed.

People sat.

The game returned.

Whitney McCarthy walked back to the mound with a black eye, a perfect game, and six outs between herself and immortality.

Zas exhaled.

“At last,” he said.

“Back to the strange war.”

For all the talk of Whitney McCarthy’s perfect game, something else had gone almost entirely unnoticed.

The Beasts were carrying a no-hitter of their own.

Not a perfect game- Julie Benjamin had drawn a walk in the first- but through six innings, that lone free pass was still the only Dragons baserunner.

Buffalo had matched heroics with silence.

…and now the bottom of the seventh began.

Luis Rengifo struck out quickly.

One away.

Then Julie Benjamin stepped in and attacked early.

She scorched a liner to short.

Hailey Zlydasyk got there, but it hit her glove hard enough to sting. Knowing Benjamin’s speed, Hailey rushed the throw.

Too rushed.

Bucky Leon had to come off the bag.

Safe.

The official scorer ruled error.

The stadium roared anyway.

Another baserunner. The no-hitter was still intact, but that was of little importance right now to the Beasts.

Hailey slouched immediately, shoulders dropping as if she had personally lost the game.

Ryan McMahon crossed over from third and gave her a quick pat between the shoulders.

“You’re fine.”

Hailey didn’t look convinced.

Paul, in the suite, winced.

“She’s taking that hard.”

Luca nodded.

“Because she expects perfection too.”

Quinn McCracken had entered looking untouchable.

Now she looked human.

C.J. Cron came up next.

Four pitches.

None close.

Walk.

Cheryl Bennett said several things in the dugout that television microphones politely ignored.

Paul said similar things in the suite with less restraint.

Ruby laughed openly.

“Stress suits you.”

The Buffalo bullpen sprang to life.

Maya Rojas began throwing.

So did veteran left-hander Ron Golden.

Paul noticed both and nearly fainted.

“They’re panicking.”

“They’re preparing,” Luca corrected.

“They’re panicking professionally.”

Pauline Sutter lined the next pitch screaming into right-center.

Brenton Doyle sprinted, leaped, and stole it cleanly.

Two outs.

Then, seeing Cron wandering too far off first, Doyle fired back in an attempt to double him off.

The throw sailed over Bucky Leon’s head.

The suite screamed.

Fortunately, Elizabeth Everett had backed up perfectly and smothered the ball before disaster struck.

Cron scrambled back safely.

Benjamin, however, moved to third.

Now the tying game had become danger.

Cheryl Bennett stepped out.

Not furious.

Decisive.

She knew Quinn wasn’t melting down so much as the whole team was wobbling.

Sometimes the pitching change is for the pitcher.

Sometimes it’s for everyone else.

She pointed to the bullpen.

Ron Golden.

The old lefty jogged in to face Brandon Drury and the chain of right-handed bats likely to follow.

Golden and Drury fought immediately.

Fastball away.

Slider foul.

Miss low.

Strike edge.

Full count.

Then the payoff pitch.

Drury took.

It was close enough to start arguments before the call even came.

“Ball four.”

The stadium erupted.

Paul groaned so loudly several strangers turned around.

Bennett launched herself halfway out of the dugout before thinking better of it.

The Buffalo bench was unanimous in outrage.

Zas looked around.

“Did battle occur?”

“No,” Luca said. “Administration.”

“That seems worse.”

The Dragons sent up Willie Calhoun to pinch-hit.

Because Golden had only faced one batter, he had to stay in under league usage rules.

Paul hated everything about this.

“Lefty-lefty matchup.”

Zas looked at him.

“Why?”

Before Paul can spiral, Luca answers calmly.

“Most left-handed hitters see right-handers better,” Luca said. “Against a lefty, the release angle is uglier, and breaking balls run away from the barrel.”

Zas nods.

“So he fights geometry.”

“Exactly.”

“Ah.”

Golden and Calhoun battled.

Then Calhoun got one.

He drove it high and deep to center.

The stadium rose.

The suite froze.

The wall approached.

Brenton Doyle was nowhere near it.

Felix Huffman was.

She sprinted, timed the wall, climbed, reached-

…and caught it.

Home run stolen.

The crowd made the sound of ten thousand people losing hope simultaneously.

Paul sat down and exhaled like he’d been underwater.

“Thank you, Felix.”

Ruby grabbed her foam Dragon head in despair.

“No!”

Joanna pointed accusingly at the sky.

“Cowardly baseball gods!”

Three runners stranded.

No runs scored.

The scoreboard still read:

0–0

Whitney McCarthy remained six outs from perfection.

…and now everyone in the stadium understood that one run might win the whole thing.

By the eighth inning, the game had become two separate experiences depending on who you were.

For baseball purists, it was masterpiece tension.

For everyone else, it was beginning to feel like a hostage situation.

Arel-Sin slouched in his seat.

“This game before was twenty-seven to fifteen.”

No one answered.

He continued.

“There were fights. Many runs. Ice cream panic. Why did I not attend that game?”

Zasaramel considered this seriously.

“I do not possess a satisfying answer.”

Then Zas raised a hand toward the suite attendant.

“Two Super Hot Dog Burgers.”

Arel-Sin sat up.

“What is a Super Hot Dog Burger?”

“No one knows,” Paul muttered.

Moments later it arrived.

It appeared to be:

• a burger patty
• sliced hot dogs
• chili
• onions
• cheese sauce
• something crunchy
• a second bun for structural dishonesty

Zas studied it like an artifact.

“This nation is creative.”

They both bit in.

Chewed.

Paused.

Arel-Sin swallowed first.

“I do not know what flavor that was.”

Zas nodded solemnly.

“Nor do I.”

Then both kept eating.

In the Dragons dugout, manager Jamal Roberts was living every manager’s nightmare.

Whitney McCarthy stood at 98 pitches.

Before the game, the plan had been clear.

“Ninety is her upper limit.”

First start. Young arm. Controlled workload.

Sensibly managed.

Professionally responsible.

All of that had existed before she threw seven perfect innings.

Now Roberts stared at the lineup card as though it might absolve him.

If he pulled her and the bullpen lost, the city would never forgive him.

If he left her in and something happened to her arm, he might never forgive himself.

Quietly, selfishly, he hoped for a simple escape.

A leadoff walk.

A wild pitch.

A hard-hit single.

Anything that would let baseball make the decision for him.

Instead, Whitney walked back out to the mound looking like an exhausted war hero.

Black eye dark.

Uniform dirty.

Breathing deeper now.

The crowd rose.

Paul did not sit.

Luca folded his arms.

Ruby and Joanna clasped hands like prayer.

Everett.

First pitch.

Lazy fly ball to center.

One out.

The stadium buzzed in confusion.

“That was it?” Arel-Sin asked.

“No one knows what they’re seeing anymore,” Luca replied.

Next was Huffman.

First pitch.

Sharp grounder to short.

Jenna Myers handled it cleanly.

Two outs.

Paul looked pale.

Then McMahon.

First pitch.

Cutter on the hands.

Broken-bat roller to second.

Out.

Three up.

Three down.

Four pitches.

For a moment, no one reacted because no one had processed what had happened.

Then Dragon Yard erupted.

Ruby screamed.

Joanna nearly toppled over the suite couch.

Paul remained standing, mouth open, eyes unfocused.

“I…”

He pointed weakly toward the field.

“I don’t…”

Then sat down slowly.

The Beasts stared at one another in collective disbelief.

A championship-caliber lineup had just been retired in four pitches by a rookie with a black eye and no business still being in the game.

Cheryl Bennett leaned on the railing.

“Alright,” she said to no one in particular. “Now I’m annoyed.”

Jamal Roberts rubbed his face.

The easy decision had not arrived.

Whitney now stood three outs from perfection.

…and somehow looked stronger than before.

Arel-Sin took another bite of the burger.

“This game remains confusing.”

Zas, chewing thoughtfully, nodded toward the mound.

“Perhaps….but that one is a warrior.”

For once, Arel-Sin agreed.

If the top of the eighth had belonged to destiny, the bottom of the eighth belonged to chaos.

Cheryl Bennett sent Ron Golden back out to pitch.

Not because he looked dominant.

Because veteran relievers are often trusted to fix the mess they started.

Sometimes wisely.

Sometimes stubbornly.

Due up for Los Auras in the bottom of the 8th:

8. Jose Trevino
9. Kevin Pillar

1.      Jenna Myers

…and looming behind them:

Rengifo.
Julie Benjamin.
C.J. Cron.

The suite understood danger immediately.

Paul was already sweating through his shirt.

Jose Trevino hit a harmless chopper to third.

Ryan McMahon charged it, set his feet, and somehow short-armed the throw into the dirt.

Safe.

Paul slapped both hands over his face.

“No.”

Ruby applauded politely.

“Fundamentals.”

Kevin Pillar squared to bunt.

Golden pounced, barehanded cleanly, and fired to second for the force.

Except the throw sailed wide.

Ezequiel Duran lunged and missed.

Everyone was safe.

Now first and second.

Nobody out.

Paul had begun pacing in geometric patterns.

Jenna Myers came up hunting.

Golden, now visibly rattled, missed badly with three straight pitches.

He managed one get-me-over strike.

Then missed again.

Walk.

Bases loaded.

Nobody out.

The stadium rose as one organism.

The bullpen gate flew open.

Cheryl Bennett didn’t sprint.

She marched.

That was worse.

She took the ball from Golden with the expression of someone storing several future conversations for later use.

Then pointed to the bullpen.

Maya Rojas.

Paul nearly collapsed.

“A two-way pitcher with the game on the line?”

Luca shrugged.

“A pitcher.”

Paul looked offended.

“That is an oversimplification.”

Maya entered to face:

2. Luis Rengifo
3. Julie Benjamin
4. C.J. Cron

No outs.

Bases loaded.

Tie game.

The crowd shaking the suite walls.

Even Zas looked interested now.

“This seems important.”

“It is extremely important,” Iris said.

Maya’s first pitch was a cutter at the knees.

Strike one.

Then a changeup away.

Weak contact.

Rengifo rolled it sharply to second.

Duran, eager to redeem himself, gathered cleanly.

Flip to short.

Relay to first.

Double play.

The stadium groaned so loudly it sounded mechanical.

Trevino scored? No.

He had frozen off third and could not break on contact hard enough.

Two outs.

Runners now at second and third.

Paul screamed in triumph.

“I ALWAYS BELIEVED IN HER!”

Ruby threw popcorn at him.

“You said she was a mistake!”

“Growth is beautiful!”

Now came the Dragons’ best hitter.

The stadium rose again.

Maya Rojas did not nibble.

She attacked.

Fastball in.

Slider away.

Foul ball straight back.

Then a changeup tumbling below the zone.

Julie chased.

Swing and miss.

Strike three.

The crowd gasped-

Then gasped again.

Elizabeth Everett failed to secure the pitch cleanly. It clanked off the mitt, dropped straight down, and rolled only a few feet in front of home plate.

Julie immediately broke for first.

Trevino, seeing the ball loose in front of the catcher, froze halfway down the line and retreated to third, unsure whether to break for home or stay put.

Everett pounced on the ball, turned, and fired to first.

Late.

Julie beat it out by a step.

Safe.

The stadium exploded in confused noise.

Paul grabbed his head.

“She struck out! How is she safe?!”

Ruby screamed with joy.

“She lives!”

Joanna was jumping.

“Baseball magic!”

Luca laughed.

“That’s dropped third strike.”

Zas stared at the field.

“That phrase is nonsense.”

Arel-Sin pointed.

“She failed, but succeeded.”

“Yes,” Luca said.

“That is unacceptable,” Zas replied.

Luca tried to help.

“If the catcher doesn’t catch strike three cleanly, the batter can run to first if first base is open or there are two outs.”

Zas looked even more offended.

“So one must complete the catching of a strikeout?”

“Yes.”

“…but if the catcher catches it, she is out?”

“Yes.”

“…and if he drops it, she may live?”

“Yes.”

Zas folded his arms.

“This sport is governed by tricksters.”

Two outs.

Runners now:

• Trevino at third
• Julie Benjamin at first

Baserunners at the corners.

Now C.J. Cron due up.

Paul looked physically unwell.

“This inning was over three times.”

Luca nodded.

“Now it isn’t.”

Two on.

Two out.

Cron represented all remaining hope.

Maya got ahead with two strikes immediately.

Cron battled back.

Fouled off one.

Then another.

Then got a pitch he liked and launched it high to left.

The crowd rose.

Greg Overton drifted back.

Back.

Back.

Then settled under it.

Catch.

Inning over.

Three baserunners on.

Nobody out.

No runs.

The scoreboard still read:

0–0

Paul sat down laughing from stress.

“I have crossed into another plane.”

Ruby stared at the field in disbelief.

“How do you do nothing with that?”

Joanna had no words left.

Luca simply nodded once.

“That’s baseball.”

Whitney McCarthy walked toward the dugout tunnel.

Three outs from perfection.

Now still tied.

No margin.

No support.

No excuses.

Jamal Roberts looked at her pitch count.

Then looked away.

Top of the ninth.

Dragon Yard no longer sounded like a stadium.

It sounded like nerves.

No one sat comfortably.
No one trusted breathing.
No one wanted to be the person who spoke first.

Whitney McCarthy walked to the mound with a black eye, a tired arm, and twenty-four straight outs behind her.

Three more and she would enter legend.

Unless baseball objected.

In the bullpen, Penny Lane was warming hard.

Manager Jamal Roberts had made the practical move.

If anything happened- a walk, a bloop, a cramp, a trainer’s concern, a sign from the heavens- he wanted an answer ready.

The crowd noticed and booed instinctively.

Ruby was horrified.

“They wouldn’t dare.”

Paul pointed dramatically.

“They should have dared in the eighth!”

Luca ignored both.

“That’s a manager protecting against chaos.”

Zas nodded.

“A wise commander prepares reinforcements.”

First up: Greg Overton.

Veteran. Calm. Strong enough to ruin a city’s mood.

He attacked the first pitch.

Lined it sharply to short.

Jenna Myers barely had to move.

One out.

The stadium exhaled as one body.

Paul closed his eyes.

“Why are we swinging first pitch now?”

“Because he liked it,” Luca said.

“He was wrong.”

Duran stepped in bouncing with nervous energy.

He took strike one? No- he wisely took the first pitch, a cutter just off the plate.

Ball one.

Then he got aggressive on the next offering.

He popped it foul toward the first-base seats.

Trevino shed the mask, tracked it perfectly, and made the catch at the railing.

Two outs.

Now the stadium was standing.

Even people who hated baseball understood something sacred might be happening.

Last chance in the inning.

Brenton Doyle entered the box trying to slow his own heartbeat.

Whitney attacked immediately.

Fastball outer edge.

Strike one.

Forkball below the knees.

Swing and miss.

Strike two.

The crowd began making that pre-eruption noise that isn’t yet cheering.

Whitney delivered pitch three.

Cutter in tight.

Doyle started to hold up.

Trevino smothered it and sprang up, pointing to first.

“Appeal!”

The first-base umpire hesitated one breath-

Then rung him up.

Strike three.

Inning over.

Dragon Yard detonated.

Whitney shouted into the night sky.

Trevino sprinted to the mound.

The infield mobbed her halfway there.

Jamal Roberts did not smile.

Not yet.

He still had a game to win.

Paul sat perfectly still.

“That check swing was not a swing.”

Ruby cackled.

“Ball don’t lie.”

“It was called strike!”

“Exactly.”

Joanna was crying from excitement.

Iris had both hands over her mouth.

Luca shook his head slowly.

“She’s still in it.”

Zas looked down at the field, impressed despite himself.

“She bends probability.”

Arel-Sin tugged his sleeve.

“If they win now, does she get everything?”

“Yes,” Luca said.

“If they lose?”

Luca paused.

“She gets remembered anyway.”

Twenty-seven up.

Twenty-seven down.

…but the scoreboard still read:

0–0

Whitney had done the impossible.

Now she could only watch her teammates try to make it matter.

The Dragons were coming to bat.

…and one swing could turn a masterpiece into immortality.

The scoreboard still read:

0–0

Whitney McCarthy had done the impossible in the top half.

Twenty-seven up.
Twenty-seven down.

A perfect game.

And now, in the cruel logic of baseball, she could only watch.

The Beasts still carried a no-hitter into the bottom of the ninth.

No hits allowed.

One inning from escaping with a bizarre shared masterpiece.

---

⚾ Pauline Sutter Reaches… Sort Of

Leading off, Pauline Sutter lofted a ball deep to right-center.

Routine.

Brenton Doyle drifted under it with the confidence of a man already thinking about the tenth inning.

Too confident.

He eased the glove upward.

The ball popped free.

The stadium gasped.

Sutter never stopped running.

She tore into second base standing.

The official scorer flashed it quickly:

E9

No hit.

No-hitter alive.

Paul laughed hysterically.

“This sport is trying to kill me.”

---

⚾ Drury Robbed

Brandon Drury came up next and smoked a liner toward the left side.

Hailey Zlydasyk launched herself full extension and stole it cleanly inches above the dirt.

One out.

Even Dragons fans applauded the play before remembering themselves.

Ruby sat down angrily.

“I hate respecting them.”

---

⚠️ Catcher’s Interference Chaos

Willie Calhoun stepped in.

Maya Rojas kept throwing over to second, worried about Sutter.

On one move, she flinched hard enough that half the stadium screamed “Balk!”

No call.

Calhoun fell behind 0–2.

Then came the putaway pitch.

Swing and miss.

Strike three—

Except the plate umpire pointed immediately.

Catcher’s interference.

Elizabeth Everett’s glove had clipped Calhoun’s bat.

Calhoun awarded first.

The stadium erupted in confusion and joy.

The Beasts exploded in fury.

---

😡 Hailey Loses It

Hailey Zlydasyk stormed in from shortstop.

“What?!”

She was angrier than anyone.

More than Maya.

More than Everett.

More than Cheryl Bennett.

Bennett recognized danger instantly and sprinted from the dugout, hoping to intercept the ejection.

Too late.

Hailey said one sentence too many.

The umpire tossed her.

The crowd roared again.

Paul stood and pointed.

“No! Keep her in! We need her to win!”

Ruby nearly fell over laughing.

Bennett stayed in the game but had to reorganize fast.

Nathaniel Lowe entered.

Ryan McMahon shifted from third to short.

Lowe took over at third.

The Beasts suddenly looked like a team held together by duct tape and indignation.

Now up: Jose Trevino.

One out.

Runners at first and second.

The infield in.

Trevino fought through six pitches before lifting one to medium-deep center.

Felix Huffman charged in, then realized too late it was over her head enough to require retreat.

She made the catch.

Pauline tagged.

The throw came home.

Close.

Very close.

Pauline slid across the plate a half-step before the tag.

Safe.

The Dragons stormed the field.

Walk-off.

Whitney sprinted from the dugout.

Joanna screamed.

Ruby wept.

Iris hugged Luca.

Paul sat motionless in trauma.

Cheryl Bennett was already pointing toward third base.

Challenge.

Pauline had missed the bag rounding third.

The celebration froze into nervous suspension.

The umpires went to review.

The giant screen displayed:

REVIEW IN PROGRESS

Then, inexplicably, the arena audio played the Jeopardy! think music.

The crowd laughed nervously.

Then an advertisement appeared:

Can’t see the bag? Visit ClearView Optometry.

Even Zas looked offended.

“This is a sacred dispute and they sell spectacles during it?”

Arel-Sin held out his hand.

“Can I have my phone now?”

“No,” Joanna said.

“This is history.”

“It is waiting,” he replied.

Luca squinted at the replay.

“She clipped the corner.”

Iris disagreed.

“She floated past it.”

Ruby shouted:

“She touched it!”

Paul shouted louder:

“She absolutely did not!”

Zas folded his arms.

“You celebrate before certainty too often.”

The crew chief emerged.

Removed the headset.

Signaled out.

Pauline Sutter had missed third.

The run was erased.

She was declared out on appeal.

The inning was over.

No run.

No hit.

No winner.

The stadium went from ecstasy to despair in one breath.

Whitney stopped halfway to the infield, hands on hips, staring into the void.

Paul slowly stood.

“We’re going to the tenth.”

Ruby screamed into a towel.

Joanna looked betrayed by existence.

Zas nodded once.

“This game is insane.”

For the first time all night, everyone agreed.

The Clubhouse

Hailey Zlydasyk entered the clubhouse still burning.

She did not slam anything.

Did not throw anything.

Did not curse.

That almost made it worse.

She carried the anger inward, where it had room to grow.

The tunnel noise faded behind her as she walked deeper into the visiting clubhouse, cleats clicking on concrete, jaw set hard enough to hurt.

She had been ejected.

In the ninth inning.

Of this game.

Of all games.

She moved mechanically toward the showers.

Glove down.
Batting gloves off.
Jersey peeled halfway.

She reached the shower door.

Stopped.

Then turned away.

There was a small players’ break room near the back—two chairs, a vending machine, stale coffee smell, fluorescent lights that made everyone look tired.

Hailey sat.

Then folded forward, arms on the table, face buried in them.

…and finally let go.

The tears came hard and immediate, as though they had been waiting outside all night.

She cried from anger.

From embarrassment.

From helplessness.

From caring too much and not knowing where to put it.

A moment later, the door opened casually.

John Crock stepped in holding loose change.

He was there for the vending machine.

He saw Hailey.

Stopped dead.

Every bit of his usual swagger vanished.

“Oh.”

He immediately looked away.

“I can go.”

He even started backing out.

Hailey stood abruptly and crossed the room before he could leave.

She wrapped both arms around him and buried her face in his shoulder.

That answered the question.

Crock dropped the coins on the floor and held her without hesitation.

No jokes.

No performance.

Just steady arms and quiet presence.

She sobbed into him.

“I let everybody down.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“The team… the fans…”

“You didn’t.”

“Paul. Iris. That little girl from earlier…”

Crock blinked once, surprised she was carrying that too.

“I lost it. I blew up. That’s not me.”

He pulled back just enough to look at her.

“No,” he said gently. “It is you.”

She stared, hurt.

Then he continued.

“It’s the part of you that cares too much.”

He guided her back to the chair and sat beside her.

“Listen to me.”

He spoke the way fathers do when they know volume is useless and steadiness matters.

“You care about the game. About people. About doing right. About winning. About representing something.”

She wiped at her face.

“That usually leads to great things.”

He nodded toward the tunnel.

“Sometimes it leads to tonight.”

She gave a weak laugh through tears.

“That’s not helpful.”

“It’s honest.”

He leaned back.

“One bad moment doesn’t erase who you are. Doesn’t erase what you bring to this team. Doesn’t erase what you mean to baseball.”

Hailey breathed slower now.

Crock nudged her shoulder.

“You’re allowed to be human before you’re heroic.”

That one landed.

Eventually the crying eased.

The shaking stopped.

The anger had become exhaustion.

She stood. Hugged him again and gave him one last squeeze before they parted.

“Thank you.”

Crock pointed toward the showers.

“Go get right.”

She managed a small smile.

“You really came in here for chips?”

“Peanut M&M’s.”

“Liar.”

“Mostly.”

As Hailey disappeared into the shower area, clubhouse noise filtered in from the hall.

Someone yelled:

“They overturned it! We’re going extras!”

Crock laughed loudly enough for her to hear.

Then called toward the showers:

“Take your time, kid.”

He shook the vending machine once.

“We could be here a while.”

The Game

Between innings, while the stadium tried to recover from having a walk-off celebration reversed by geometry, Zasaramel checked his watch.

He frowned.

“It grows late.”

Arel-Sin looked at the time, then at the field, then back at his father.

For once, he agreed instantly.

“Yes.”

Everyone in the suite turned.

Arel-Sin straightened his posture and adopted the tone of a responsible student who had definitely not spent most of the night asking for snacks.

“It is a school night. My academic future must be considered.”

Luca nearly laughed.

Iris rolled her eyes.

Zas nodded solemnly.

“The boy is correct. He requires sleep for scholarship.”

He began gathering things.

“We shall depart.”

Ruby stared at them as if they had announced they were abandoning ship during a storm.

Joanna was even more offended.

“Leave?”

“It is the tenth inning,” Ruby said.

“Exactly,” Zas replied.

“The game has become longer than advertised.”

“That is when it gets better,” Joanna said.

Arel-Sin shook his head.

“I have already seen enough baseball for one lifetime.”

Ruby pointed dramatically across the suite.

“Luca and Iris aren’t leaving.”

All eyes shifted.

Iris froze mid-sip.

Luca remained calm.

“She does have school tomorrow,” Ruby added.

Iris looked betrayed.

“Why am I evidence?”

Paul rose from his seat like a man called to moral duty.

“You cannot leave now.”

Zas blinked.

“Why?”

“It’s extra innings.”

Paul said it the way priests say sacred text.

“They need you the most.”

Zas looked at the field.

“The players do not know I am here.”

“That is irrelevant,” Paul said immediately.

Arel-Sin looked suspicious.

“This sounds false.”

“It is spiritually true,” Paul replied.

Joanna folded her arms.

“You sat through nine innings. Now you want to leave when it becomes legendary?”

Ruby added:

“If the Dragons lose because you abandoned them, live with that.”

“That is manipulation,” Zas said.

“Yes,” Ruby replied. “And it’s working.”

Luca finally joined in.

“You’ll never hear the end of it if you leave now.”

Arel-Sin sighed heavily.

“That is the strongest argument yet.”

Zas slowly sat back down.

“We remain under protest.”

Arel-Sin collapsed into his chair.

“I hate all of you.”

“No you don’t,” Joanna said cheerfully.

“I hate most of you.”

“Better.”

Zas raised one hand toward the suite attendant.

“Two Great Hot Dog Burgers.”

Paul corrected automatically.

“Super Hot Dog Burgers.”

Zas nodded.

“The greater version, then.”

As the food order went in, the crowd buzzed with renewed life.

No one wanted to go home now.

Not after a perfect game.

Not after a no-hitter still alive.

Not after a walk-off had died on replay.

The night had crossed into something else entirely.

Zas looked at the field, then at the people around him.

“This sport is irrational.”

Paul smiled.

“Now you understand it.”

Whitney McCarthy returned to the mound.

The crowd rose again, partly from devotion and partly from disbelief.

She had already thrown a perfect game through nine innings.

And yet, because baseball is cruel, she still had to keep pitching.

No automatic runner.

No manufactured urgency.

The IBC did not believe in charity baserunners.

If you wanted to score, you earned it.

Luca says some baseball leagues play with what is called the “ghost runner” but the IBC Premier League does not. Zas approved of this immediately.

“At last,” he said. “One sensible rule.”

The scoreboard flashed the Beasts hitters due up:

1. Padre Grimes
2. Bucky Leon
3. Nathaniel Lowe

Paul sat forward.

“This is it.”

Then paused.

“…That should be Hailey.”

The loss of Zlydasyk still hurt strategically.

…but he recovered quickly.

“Doesn’t matter. Padre and Bucky have been quiet all night. Great players wake late.”

Luca looked at the field.

“Maybe.”

Ruby smiled.

“Or maybe they sleep through the alarm.”

Padre stepped in looking determined to become the hero in one swing.

Whitney’s first pitch was a slower fastball, lacking its old life.

Padre jumped it instantly.

He got under it.

Lazy fly ball to left.

Routine out.

Padre snapped the bat over his knee in disgust before he had even reached first base, then jogged lazily through the inevitable out.

Paul recoiled.

“What are we doing?”

Zas nodded approvingly.

“He destroys his weapon after failure. Honest response.”

“No,” Paul said. “Stupid response.”

Bucky Leon came up next, veteran calm expected to restore order.

Whitney, sensing mercy she did not deserve, poured a strike right down the middle.

Leon watched it.

Strike one.

Then rolled the next pitch softly to short.

Jenna Myers glided in, fielded cleanly, and threw him out by three steps.

Two away.

Paul stared at the sky.

“They are trying to lose.”

Luca answered quietly.

“They’re trying too hard to win.”

Now Nathaniel Lowe.

Replacement for Hailey.

Not the same threat.

…but still dangerous enough.

Whitney stepped off the mound and briefly grabbed at her shoulder.

The stadium hushed.

Paul stood instantly.

“There. There it is.”

Ruby frowned.

“What?”

“She’s finally feeling it.”

Even Jamal Roberts leaned forward from the dugout rail.

This was the first visible sign all night that the machine had limits.

Paul pointed toward the plate.

“Hailey would smell blood right now.”

He meant Zlydasyk.

“She’d take six pitches, make Whitney prove it, maybe rip a double.”

Instead, Lowe entered the box looking eager to rescue everything immediately.

Whitney’s velocity was down.

Her command was looser.

Her aura was mortal.

Lowe bailed her out.

He chased a cutter off the plate.

Swung through a forkball that barely forked.

Then lunged at a fastball up and in.

Strike three.

Meek.

Overeager.

Inning over.

Dragon Yard erupted less like joy and more like astonishment.

Whitney had stopped looking invincible.

…and still Buffalo could not touch her.

Paul sank into his chair.

“She gave them an opening.”

Luca nodded.

“They panicked when it appeared.”

Back in the home dugout, Whitney sat while the trainer worked on her shoulder.

Jamal Roberts crouched in front of her.

“You done?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

The medic checked range of motion, asked three quick questions, then nodded cautiously.

“She can continue.”

Jamal exhaled.

“If we don’t score.”

Whitney looked toward the field.

“Then score.”

Still tied.

Still no hits for the Dragons.

Still perfection alive.

Still absurdity ongoing.

…and now the Dragons came up with a chance to end the longest night any of them would ever remember.

Nothing happened.

That was the headline.

No dramatic bunt.

No rattled reliever.

No hanging slider punished into the night.

No tired fielder kicking the ball around.

Just outs.

Quiet, efficient, relentless outs.

Normally, extra innings expose hitters first.

Mechanics drift.

Patience disappears.

Everyone starts trying to become legend with one swing.

The strike zone expands in the hitter’s imagination.

Fundamentals rot.

Bat speed slows.

Brains speed up.

It gets messy.

This game had become psychologically different.

No one had a hit.

Not one.

Only a few Dragons had reached at all- and every one of them via error or walk.

That meant every hitter now carried a private shame.

Every trip to the plate felt like a chance to redeem twelve innings of failure.

…and pitchers love desperate hitters.

Whitney McCarthy saw it faster than anyone.

Buffalo’s lineup, already prone to hero swings, got greedier.

Padre tried to yank everything.

Leon lunged at shadows.

Lowe expanded the zone.

Even disciplined hitters started cheating early.

Whitney, who by rights should have been exhausted beyond usefulness, suddenly received a gift:

Batters getting themselves out.

She no longer needed overpowering stuff.

She needed timing, location, and their impatience.

She had all three.

When the top of the eleventh ended, the impossible remained intact.

Perfect game through 11 innings.

Thirty-three batters faced.

Thirty-three retired.

Whitney walked off looking both reborn and near death.

Her arm hung a little heavier.

Her steps were slower.

…but her eyes were clearer than they had been in the seventh.

Paul shook his head.

“She’s dead.”

Luca nodded.

“…and somehow pitching better.”

Ruby clutched her foam dragon head.

“She’s become myth.”

Zas said nothing.

Even he understood that some contests pass beyond ordinary language.

The Dragons did no better.

Buffalo’s patched-together pitching plan held.

Maya Rojas mixed speeds.

Defenders made every routine play.

Three more outs.

No noise but groans.

The scoreboard rolled over to:

12

A strange murmur passed through the stadium.

Casual fans were now asking logistical questions.

Serious fans were ecstatic.

Workers were checking watches.

Children had fallen asleep in seats.

Arel-Sin envied them.

In lower divisions of the IBC, a tie after twelve innings was simply a tie.

Everyone went home.

Civilization moved on.

…but this was the Premier League.

…and Premier League rules had prepared for madness.

Each team could activate its Emergency Pitching Set once the twelfth began.

Ten reserve pitchers listed.

Five eligible to appear.

Usually Academy arms.

Usually kids hoping not to be noticed.

Any emergency pitcher used in the twelfth would be unavailable the next day.

Meaning tonight’s desperation became tomorrow’s problem.

Zas listened to the explanation and frowned.

“You punish tomorrow for today’s indecision?”

Paul pointed dramatically.

“Now you understand baseball scheduling.”

Both dugouts stirred.

Managers huddled with coaches.

Phones were checked.

Clipboards flipped.

Young emergency arms stretched nervously in foul territory, realizing they might enter the most famous game of their lives without warning.

Jamal Roberts still hoped he would not need them.

Cheryl Bennett definitely hoped she would not need them.

Neither fully believed it.

Zas checked his watch again.

His face darkened.

“This game now trespasses against sleep.”

Arel-Sin, slumped across two seats, lifted a hand weakly.

“I request death.”

“No,” Joanna said cheerfully.

“You requested two burgers.”

“That was before the twelfth.”

Ruby refused to yield.

“We stay.”

Paul stood like a battlefield commander.

“No one leaves now.”

Luca smirked.

“You’ve said that since the ninth.”

“…and I was right every time.”

Iris, somehow still awake, stared at the field.

“Can a game become haunted?”

Luca looked at Whitney in the dugout, wrapped in a jacket, shoulder worked by trainers, waiting to pitch the twelfth.

“Yes,” he said.

“I think this one did.”

As the twelfth inning prepared to begin, the stadium lights dimmed slightly and the giant screen flickered alive.

A title card appeared:

WHITNEY MCCARTHY: GET TO KNOW YOUR DRAGONS

A low laugh rolled through the crowd.

Everyone knew this video.

It had played before first pitch.

Almost nobody had cared then.

Now thirty thousand people watched in silence.

The montage opened not with strikeouts or radar-gun numbers, but with Whitney waking up late and scrambling out of bed.

Hair messy.

Still half asleep.

A teenage girl in a room filled with:

• posters
• makeup trays
• gaming collectibles
• baseball medals shoved beside perfume bottles
• stuffed animals she swore she no longer cared about

Ruby pointed at the screen.

“She’s adorable.”

Paul didn’t answer.

He was emotionally invested now.

Whitney appeared next in Church, dressed neatly, singing with the congregation and trying not to laugh when someone beside her missed a note badly.

Then the video cut to her in full CANT school uniform, confidently answering a question in class while two classmates behind her clearly tried to get on camera.

Iris leaned forward.

“She still goes to school?”

Luca smiled.

“Apparently.”

Arel-Sin looked offended.

“This means homework still exists for heroes.”

Next came Whitney at her uncle’s ranch in San Padres.

Jeans.

Boots.

Hair tied back.

Riding a horse confidently through open land as though she’d done it since childhood.

Zas nodded.

“Useful skill.”

No one asked why.

Then the montage took a sharp turn.

Whitney dressed as Zero Suit Samus.

Then Lara Croft.

Then Catwoman from Gotham.

The interview clip played over it.

“Catwoman really spoke to me,” Whitney said.
“Because it showed me a teen girl can do anything she wants if she puts her mind to it.”

The suite reacted instantly.

Joanna clutched Ruby’s arm.

“I love her.”

Ruby was already converted.

“She is perfect.”

Paul muttered:

“She is currently ruining my life.”

Now came the baseball footage.

Bullpens.

Long toss.

Film study.

Whitney glaring in concentration.

Then immediately after:

Whitney putting bubble gum on a teammate’s cap.

Whitney doing a ridiculous dance in the dugout.

Whitney pretending to throw a bullpen with a banana.

The crowd laughed warmly.

The interviewer asked:

“Is it weird being on a team where some players are old enough to be your parents?”

Whitney shrugged.

“No one makes it weird. They know I’m there to work.”

More clips of teammates high-fiving her.

“They know I earned my spot.”

Then she grinned.

“There are some cultural and age differences…but we all speak the same language in the end.”

Beat.

“Baseball.”

Crowd applause.

Then she added:

“My pitching coach says he’ll ground me if I don’t get a strikeout, but that’s about it.”

The stadium roared laughing.

Even Paul smiled despite himself.

Before the game, it had been harmless promotional fluff.

Now it felt different.

Now everyone knew:

• she was sixteen and a half
• she had been standing against grown professionals for hours
• she was still technically a schoolgirl
• she had already become part of baseball history

Iris looked at the screen as if seeing possibility itself.

Luca noticed.

“You alright?”

“She’s barely older than me.”

“Yeah.”

“She’s doing that.”

Luca nodded.

“Yes.”

The montage ended.

The camera cut straight to Whitney in the dugout, wrapped in a jacket, shoulder worked by trainers, cheeks flushed with exhaustion.

She saw herself on the screen.

Then stuck out her tongue at the camera.

…and smiled.

Dragon Yard exploded.

Zas watched the reaction carefully.

Then said:

“She is either fearless…”

He paused.

“...or sixteen.”

Luca laughed.

“Probably both.”

When Whitney McCarthy walked back to the mound, the stadium video montage vanished from memory instantly.

The girl from the screen- the churchgoer, student, cosplayer, horse rider, smiling teenager- was gone.

In her place stood the version Buffalo had known all night.

The machine.

Cap low.

Jaw set.

Eyes cold.

No smile.

No trace of nerves.

Only the mound.

She stared at the Beasts hitters the same way she had in the first inning.

The same way she had in the ninth.

The same way she had in the eleventh.

As if none of them frightened her.

As if they were the ones with something to prove.

…and by now, they did.

Whitney had learned the most useful truth available to a tired pitcher:

Buffalo would help.

They wanted to be heroes so badly that discipline had abandoned them.

From the dugout rail, Cheryl Bennett could only watch in contained fury.

These were veteran hitters.

Professional hitters.

Players who had spent careers being taught:

• shorten up
• use the middle of the field
• make her work
• trust the count
• stop chasing ghosts

Instead they were trying to end the game with one swing each.

…and the teenager knew it.

She fed them just enough bait.

Greg Overton tried to ambush another first pitch and popped it up.

Duran expanded the zone on a cutter off the plate.

Doyle rolled over a changeup so weakly that Whitney herself fielded it and tossed to first.

Thirty-six up.

Thirty-six down.

Perfect through twelve.

The crowd no longer cheered normally.

They made the sound people make when they know they are present for something impossible.

For the bottom of the twelfth, Buffalo went to Tom Hankey.

The veteran closer strode in with the posture of a man offended that baseball was still happening.

…but what drew more attention was the bullpen beyond him.

Warming hard:

Seaver Espinoza.

Age:

15 years, 8 months.

If she entered, she would become the youngest Premier League player anyone could remember.

Ruby leaned toward Paul.

“Is Cheryl chasing headlines now?”

Paul never looked away from the field.

“I don’t care if she brings a twelve-year-old with a mustache.”

He pointed toward Hankey.

“Maybe one of them can throw strikes.”

Luca laughed.

“That was harsh.”

“It was accurate.”

Hankey got two quick outs.

Then the Dragons got a pitch they finally liked.

A towering fly ball launched to deep center.

Everyone stood.

Ruby screamed before the ball reached its apex.

Joanna was already hugging strangers.

Paul shouted:

“No! NO!”

The ball climbed.

Hung.

Drifted.

Then died in the cool night air.

Felix Huffman settled under it with room to spare and made the catch at the track.

The stadium released one massive collective groan.

Not anger.

Exhaustion.

No runs.

No hits.

No ending.

The scoreboard changed again:

13

Zas looked at it like an insult.

“This game has become a hostage situation.”

Arel-Sin, half-asleep in his seat, raised one finger weakly.

“I blame all of you.”

Whitney sat in the dugout, receiving fluids, shoulder wrapped, eyes still fixed on the field.

Tom Hankey stalked toward the Buffalo bench muttering at the air.

…and in the bullpen, fifteen-year-old Seaver Espinoza kept warming.

The night had no intention of ending.

Any fantasy that the thirteenth inning would bring a swift resolution died with the first at-bat.

Padre Grimes walked up looking determined.

He walked back looking haunted.

Whitney struck him out on three pitches.

That was not the memorable part.

The memorable part was that Padre swung so violently at all three that his bat left his hands each time.

Once toward the first-base dugout.

Once spinning behind him.

Once nearly straight upward.

The third miss was followed by language so vivid the television audio crew collectively panicked.

Paul covered Iris’s ears too late.

“I know those words,” Iris said.

“Still.”

Cheryl Bennett did not care about profanity.

She cared that her lineup was unraveling mentally in public.

Veterans were abandoning mechanics.

Trying to hit five-run homers in a scoreless game.

Letting a sixteen-year-old dictate their emotions.

That was the emergency.

So when Bucky Leon rose to grab a bat, Cheryl stopped him with one hand.

“No.”

Then pointed down the bench.

“Paige.”

The stadium buzzed.

Paige Summers- Academy call-up, nerves visible from fifty feet away- grabbed a helmet.

Leon turned in disbelief.

“What?”

He pointed openly at Summers.

“You’re sending her?”

Then at himself.

“Instead of me?”

He was furious enough that everyone nearby heard it.

Cheryl met him with a tone colder than shouting.

“Yes.”

Leon stepped forward.

“I’m a veteran.”

“…and acting like one would help.”

He froze.

She did not raise her voice.

“Sit down.”

Then, after one beat:

“…and leave the managing to me.”

Leon stared, chest heaving, then sat hard enough to shake the bench.

The dugout became very quiet.

Zas, from the suite, nodded in approval.

“She rules by public humiliation.”

Luca smirked.

“Sometimes necessary.”

Nathaniel Lowe picked up a bat.

Cheryl pointed again.

“Not you either.”

Lowe blinked.

“Luke.”

Luke Raley, who had barely moved all night, suddenly had to move now.

At the far end of the bench, Cal Raleigh noticed he was again being ignored.

His expression suggested future conversations.

Cheryl ignored that too.

She was managing the inning and the culture simultaneously.

Paige stepped in looking seventeen years old even if she wasn’t.

Whitney looked at her, saw nerves, and gave nothing free.

Ball one low.

Strike outer edge.

Foul tip.

Two pitches just off.

Then a front-door cutter froze Paige completely.

Strike three.

Four pitches.

One swing.

Paul laughed bitterly.

“She struck out politely.”

Cheryl did not mind.

At least Paige had made Whitney throw real decisions.

Raley entered with visible calm.

He took a borderline pitch.

Fouled off another.

Refused a chase pitch.

Then got one.

He smoked a screaming liner down the third-base line.

For half a second the entire Buffalo dugout rose.

Then Julie Benjamin dove to her left, backhanded it cleanly, and came up firing.

Out.

The stadium exploded.

Paul collapsed into his seat.

“No one is allowed joy.”

Despite the outs, Cheryl was satisfied.

Those hitters had not panicked.

They had not donated swings.

They had made Whitney work.

That mattered.

She turned back toward her dugout.

“Now learn.”

Leon looked away.

Cal Raleigh muttered something unprintable.

Padre kicked a water cooler.

…and Whitney, somehow still perfect, walked calmly back toward the dugout like the whole inning had cost her nothing.

It had cost everyone else plenty.

As the teams changed sides again, the broadcast booth stopped pretending this was merely a regular-season game.

The giant screen flashed new numbers:

WHITNEY McCARTHY
39 consecutive outs to start game
Most in baseball history

The crowd rose into a fresh wave of applause.

Now they understood.

Harvey Haddix had already been passed.

History was no longer approaching.

It was happening.

The lead announcer spoke in the lowered tone reserved for moments larger than schedule and standings.

“An hour ago we were talking about a promising teenager making her first Premier League start.”

“Now Whitney McCarthy stands alone with the most consecutive outs ever recorded to begin a game.”

The camera cut to Whitney in the dugout.

Shoulder wrapped.

Fluids beside her.

Face flushed.

Eyes fixed on the field.

Sixteen years old.

Luca leaned forward.

“Harvey Haddix had thirty-six in 1959.”

Iris nodded.

“Twelve perfect innings.”

“Yes,” Luca said. “Then he lost it in the thirteenth.”

Paul immediately pointed toward the field.

“…and lost the game.”

He smiled grimly.

“A tradition worth honoring tonight.”

Ruby threw popcorn at him.

“You are vile.”

“I am consistent.”

Luca continued.

“Haddix’s Pirates actually had hits behind him.”

He gestured toward the scoreboard.

“These teams have managed something even weirder.”

No hits.

No runs.

No ending.

Zas folded his arms.

“They have refined foolishness.”

Luca raised another finger.

“There’s still another record.”

Paul groaned.

“Of course there is.”

“Mark Buehrle,” Luca said. “Forty-five consecutive batters retired overall.”

Arel-Sin, despite exhaustion, looked interested.

“How many more?”

Luca counted quickly.

“If Whitney finishes the fourteenth, she reaches forty-two.”

He pointed to the inning board.

“She ties Buehrle by the end of the fifteenth.”

“Breaks it with the first out of the sixteenth.”

Silence.

Even the suite attendant paused.

Zas turned slowly.

“The sixteenth?”

“Yes.”

He checked his watch with visible disappointment.

“I reject this possibility.”

Arel-Sin lifted a weak hand.

“I second the motion.”

Joanna gasped.

“You’d leave before immortality?”

“Yes,” they both answered instantly.

Paul sat back in his chair, eyes on the field.

“She already owns one record.”

He pointed again.

“She’s chasing another.”

Then he sighed deeply.

“…and I am trapped in a masterpiece.”

Ruby laughed.

“You love this.”

“No,” Paul said honestly.

“I am suffering beautifully.”

The mood in the stadium had changed.

No one cared about traffic now.

No one cared about work tomorrow.

No one cared about school.

They cared about being able to say, years later:

I was there when the teenager passed Haddix.

Whitney stood.

Removed the wrap from her shoulder.

Picked up the ball.

…and walked toward the mound again.

The stadium rose before she reached the foul line.

Zas watched thirty thousand people stand for a sixteen-year-old pitcher.

Then muttered:

“They worship arithmetic.”

Luca smiled.

“No.”

“They worship a legend.”

Before Whitney McCarthy could continue her own march through history, another kind of history took the mound first.

Seaver Espinoza jogged in from the bullpen.

Helmetless face.

Braided hair tucked tight.

Shoulders squared with visible effort.

Age:

15 years, 8 months.

The youngest Premier League player anyone could remember.

Dragon Yard reacted in confused layers:

• cheers for novelty
• boos for the opponent
• admiration for nerve
• disbelief from older fans who suddenly felt ancient

Paul stood up.

“They actually did it.”

Ruby folded her arms.

“This is shameless.”

Luca shook his head.

“This is necessity.”

Zas narrowed his eyes.

“They send children to war now?”

First batter: Jenna Myers.

No easing in.

No soft landing.

Seaver’s first pitch was a fastball right at the zone.

Myers swung hard.

Hooked foul.

The second pitch came similarly aggressive.

Another loud foul, this one deeper.

Paul blinked.

“She’s challenging her?”

Luca nodded.

“She doesn’t know enough to be scared.”

That was true.

Buffalo’s scouting report on the Dragons was detailed.

Los Auras’ scouting report on Seaver barely existed.

…and Myers had expected caution.

Instead she got boldness.

Then Seaver made the mistake rookies make.

A fastball too much over the middle.

Myers unloaded.

The ball screamed to deep center.

The stadium rose.

Ruby was already halfway celebrating.

Then Felix Huffman appeared from nowhere again.

She sprinted back, timed the wall, leaped, and stole extra bases- perhaps more.

The catch sent a groan rolling through the park.

Paul celebrated as Joanna collapsed back into her seat.

“Felix is personally ruining this city.”

Zas nodded respectfully.

“She hunts the sky well.”

That catch changed Seaver.

You could see it.

The shoulders dropped.

The breaths slowed.

The eyes sharpened.

Now she looked less like a teenager surviving and more like a pitcher competing.

Luis Rengifo worked the count carefully, refusing to donate swings.

Then, seeing the infield back, he tried to deaden a bunt up the third-base line for a cheap base hit.

Good idea.

Poor execution.

Seaver charged fast, gloved it cleanly, and fired on the run.

Out.

Two away.

Cheryl Bennett clapped once, hard.

“That’s it.”

Now Julie Benjamin.

Best hitter on the Dragons.

The stadium sensed a duel.

Seaver surprised everyone by changing speeds immediately.

Breaking ball for strike one.

Fastball in tight.

Changeup fading away.

Julie, who had looked composed all night, suddenly looked rushed.

On 1–2, Seaver doubled up with another off-speed pitch.

Julie swung over it badly.

Strike three.

The crowd gasped.

Paul leapt up screaming while everyone else groaned.

“THE FUTURE IS NOW!”

Seaver did not try to act calm.

She screamed.

Pumped both fists.

Spun toward the dugout in disbelief and joy.

The Buffalo bench emptied to the rail.

Players who had looked lifeless an inning earlier were suddenly alive again.

Pads slammed.

Helmets banged.

Leon shouted first.

Cal Raleigh shouted louder.

Even Cheryl allowed herself a sharp smile.

Paul stared in stunned respect.

“She might be insane.”

Luca smiled.

“She might be ready.”

The Dragons walked off muttering.

The Beasts came onto the field roaring.

Whitney McCarthy rose from the dugout steps and began walking toward the mound again.

Now she was no longer the only teenager in the game.

…and somehow, the night had become even stranger.

By now the game had shed any resemblance to ordinary baseball.

It had become a trial.

Not of skill alone.

Of lungs, legs, nerves, stubbornness, and memory.

Who still remembered how to swing properly.

Who still trusted their mechanics.

Who still believed tomorrow existed.

The Dragons were no longer overmatched by Seaver Espinoza.

They were timing her.

Squaring balls up.

Putting clean swings on pitches.

…and still getting nothing for it.

Line drives found gloves.

Deep flies died in night air.

Sharp grounders met perfect positioning.

The rookie had stopped surprising them and started surviving them.

Which, in some ways, was more impressive.

Ruby clutched the railing.

“They’re hitting her!”

Luca nodded.

“…and not getting rewarded.”

Paul smiled darkly.

“Now they know how we feel.”

Cheryl Bennett knew fatigue changes people.

So she changed people.

Cal Raleigh finally entered behind the plate.

Padre Grimes, after a night of theatrical failure and flying bats, was removed entirely.

In his place at the top of the order came Academy call-up:

Theresa “Terry” Riley

The Buffalo bench applauded.

Padre did not.

Brenton Doyle was also done.

Replacing him:

Nellie Rando, another Academy call-up whose legs still looked fresh because they were.

Cheryl was no longer chasing pedigree.

She was chasing pulse.

The replacements were not stars.

…but they were sane.

They took pitches.

They fouled off mistakes.

They ran hard.

They made Whitney work honestly.

That alone was progress.

Still, progress was not enough.

Whitney kept retiring them.

Perfect through fourteen.

Then through the first two batters of the fifteenth.

The stadium had crossed from excitement into reverence.

People spoke softly now.

As if noise might disturb the event.

Then the Dragons television booth welcomed an unexpected guest:

Mark Buehrle

He had been in the Los Auras area, heard what was happening, and come to the park.

The crowd roared when shown on the screen.

The announcers almost laughed in disbelief.

“You hold the record,” one said.

“For now,” Buehrle replied.

He smiled toward the field.

“I hope the kid gets it.”

Then added:

“…and if she does, I’d like to shake her hand myself.”

Even Paul applauded that.

Ruby looked suspicious.

“He seems too gracious.”

“He’s Midwestern baseball royalty,” Luca said.

“That’s normal for them.”

Now one batter stood between Whitney and the number.

Nellie Rando

Fresh legs.

Fresh eyes.

No scar tissue from twelve failed at-bats.

Perhaps the most dangerous kind of hitter left.

The stadium stood.

Whitney breathed once, deeply.

Fastball away.

Nellie got the barrel there.

She shot a screaming liner down the first-base line.

Fair? No.

Foul by feet.

The crowd groaned in relief.

Paul grabbed his chest.

“That was death.”

Whitney changed eye level.

Nellie adjusted again.

This time she lashed another liner, now hooking toward third.

Also foul.

Now the crowd made a different sound.

Fear.

This batter was not intimidated.

Zas leaned forward.

“At last. Resistance.”

Whitney stepped off.

Looked in.

Nodded.

Delivered.

The forkball came out like a strike and vanished like a lie.

Nellie committed fully.

Swung through empty space.

Strike three.

The stadium erupted before the umpire’s arm finished moving.

Whitney had retired:

45 consecutive batters

Tying the overall record.

The Dragons dugout poured onto the rail.

Buffalo players applauded despite themselves.

Mark Buehrle stood in the booth and clapped hard.

Paul rose to his feet, pointing angrily and admiringly at once.

“I hate this magnificently.”

Ruby screamed.

Joanna cried openly.

Arel-Sin woke up just enough to ask:

“Did something happen?”

“Yes,” everyone answered.

Whitney walked calmly toward the dugout.

Shoulder hanging low now.

Legs heavier.

Face unreadable.

One more out in the sixteenth…

…and even Buehrle would be behind her.

Seaver Espinoza was no longer surviving.

She was pitching.

The teenager carved through the Dragons with startling poise, changing speeds, working edges, and refusing to blink at the weight of the night.

Three up.

Three down.

No hits still.

Even Ruby had to respect it.

“I hate that I respect it.”

Paul smiled smugly.

“Growth.”

Now there was nowhere left for attention to go but one place.

Whitney McCarthy.

Television cameras had caught her in the dugout between innings, jaw clenched, eyes shut, hand pressed into her shoulder.

She had winced.

The first visible surrender of the night.

The broadcast openly wondered whether Jamal Roberts could send her back out.

Then Whitney stood, picked up the ball, and walked to the mound looking weathered, pale, and entirely unwilling to quit.

Jamal Roberts made his own statement:

No one was warming in the bullpen.

He trusted her.

Or had accepted that this had gone beyond ordinary managing.

Standing between Whitney and baseball immortality:

Terry Riley

Academy call-up.

Fresh legs.

Fresh eyes.

No trauma from fifteen innings of failure.

The exact kind of hitter no pitcher wants.

Whitney missed away.

Ball one.

Then low.

Ball two.

Then just off the corner.

Ball three.

Dragon Yard went dead silent.

For the first time all night, the perfect game looked mortal because of something simple:

Patience.

Paul was already up, shouting before anything happened.

“She can’t walk a rookie!”

Ruby shoved him back into his seat.

“She can if she wants!”

Whitney stepped off.

Looked in.

The pitch clock kept draining.

Ten.

Nine.

Eight.

Longer than any count all night.

She could not keep thinking.

She had to throw.

One more ball and perfection was gone.

Whitney inhaled deeply.

Then trusted Jose Trevino.

The pitch came out riding away.

Paul threw both arms up instantly.

“Ball four!”

The umpire punched strike one.

The stadium detonated.

Buffalo’s dugout lost its mind.

Cheryl Bennett was halfway to the rail.

Zas frowned.

“So the judge may simply choose?”

“Yes,” Luca said.

“That seems dangerous.”

Whitney came back quickly.

Too quickly.

The next pitch was a mistake.

Middle-middle.

No disguise.

No excuse.

Whitney grimaced the instant it left her hand.

Riley, taking all the way on the 3–1 count, watched it split the plate and recoiled in horror.

Strike two.

Now both sides had wasted something precious.

Paul screamed.

“You had her!”

Riley screamed something less printable at herself.

Trevino put down the sign.

Whitney nodded.

Forkball.

Riley stayed alive, fouling it straight back.

Now Whitney changed.

Something in her sharpened.

Trevino flashed another sign.

Whitney shook him off.

Again.

Again.

The crowd roared with each refusal.

Finally she agreed to nothing and delivered something Trevino had not expected.

He reacted late, dropping and smothering the pitch just above the dirt.

Riley swung over it.

Strike three.

Caught cleanly.

Dragon Yard exploded as if a title had been won.

Whitney had done it.

46 consecutive batters retired.

The modern overall record surpassed.

Mark Buehrle stood in the booth applauding hard, laughing in disbelief.

Paul stood too, pointing furiously at the sky.

“She walked her twice and still won!”

Ruby was crying.

Joanna was screaming.

Arel-Sin woke up again.

“Are we free now?”

“No!”

everyone yelled.

Whitney looked back at Trevino.

They shared one quick smile.

Nothing more.

Then immediately reset.

Work remained.

Now relaxed in a way she had not been for innings, Whitney attacked.

Paige Summers froze on a cutter.

Strike three.

Luke Raley chased elevated heat.

Strike three.

Cal Raleigh stood in the on-deck circle, bat in hand, furious he would not get a chance.

Inning over.

Perfect through sixteen.

The crowd was still roaring when Whitney walked off casually, almost coldly.

No fist pump.

No scream.

No theatrics.

Only a slow walk back toward the dugout.

Because she understood what everyone else was trying not to:

This still might not be over.

The crowd stood before the first pitch.

Not because etiquette required it.

Because no one trusted themselves to sit anymore.

Sixteen innings into a scoreless game.

A perfect game alive.

A no-hitter still technically alive for Buffalo.

Two teenagers deciding the night.

…and everyone inside Dragon Yard running on fumes.

Jenna Myers led off for Los Auras.

She and Seaver Espinoza fought immediately.

Foul ball.

Take.

Foul ball.

Miss low.

Borderline strike.

Miss away.

Full count.

The next pitch tailed just off the edge.

Ball four.

The stadium exploded.

Paul did not.

“That was strike three!”

The Buffalo dugout agreed loudly.

The umpire did not reconsider.

Seaver stared for half a second, then turned and took the return throw.

Cheryl Bennett was already muttering to herself.

Luis Rengifo stepped in with one task and completed it beautifully.

He deadened a bunt up the first-base side.

Seaver charged.

Only play was first.

Out.

Myers advanced to second.

One out.

Winning run in scoring position.

Ruby grabbed Joanna’s arm so hard she yelped.

Paul looked physically ill.

Zas frowned.

“They celebrate a small hit that becomes an out?”

Luca nodded.

“He traded himself for position.”

Zas considered this.

“Acceptable.”

Julie Benjamin came up next.

Buffalo did not waste time.

Cheryl Bennett held up four fingers.

Intentional walk.

The stadium booed thunderously.

Paul booed back at the crowd.

“It’s correct!”

Zas looked confused.

“They object to wisdom?”

Luca explained calmly.

“They want competition. Buffalo wants force plays.”

He pointed.

“Now any base can make an out.”

Zas nodded.

“Then the crowd is emotional and wrong.”

“Usually,” Paul said.

Now C.J. Cron.

No free pass sign this time.

Seaver attacked.

Cron took.

Fouled one back.

Missed another.

Then worked the count full.

The payoff pitch clipped just off the black.

Ball four.

Buffalo erupted again.

Paul nearly collapsed.

“THAT IS THE SAME PITCH!”

Cheryl Bennett stared upward as if asking higher powers for procedural review.

At this point she no longer believed in luck.

Bases loaded.

One out.

No place to put her.

Pauline Sutter stepped in.

Seaver, to her credit, did not flinch.

Strike one.

Foul tip.

Strike two.

Paul stood and pointed wildly.

“She’s got her!”

Even Ruby feared it.

Then Sutter showed bunt late.

Deadly late.

She dropped it softly up the third-base line.

Perfectly placed.

The infield froze one beat too long because no one expected courage that strange in that moment.

Then chaos.

McMahon charged from short, barehanded cleanly, and fired home.

Hard.

Too hard.

Cal Raleigh tried to receive and sweep the tag in one motion.

The ball smashed leather, popped free, and skipped behind him.

Everyone screamed at once.

Jenna Myers never hesitated.

She dove across the plate.

Safe.

The stadium detonated.

Players flooded from the dugout.

Helmets flew.

Water flew.

Humans vanished into a pile near home plate.

The scoreboard changed at last:

Dragons 1
Beasts 0

Sixteen innings.

Walk-off on a squeeze bunt and catcher’s misplay.

Baseball had chosen comedy after flirting with majesty all night.

Whitney McCarthy, still in the dugout steps, did not sprint first.

She exhaled first.

Then smiled in pure relief.

Then let teammates drag her into the celebration.

Paul dropped backward into his seat.

“No.”

Ruby screamed triumphantly in his face.

“Yes!”

Joanna was crying and laughing at once.

Iris was overwhelmed.

Luca just shook his head.

“I will never see that again.”

Zas stood immediately.

“It is over.”

Arel-Sin rose like a resurrected man.

“Finally.”

They began walking before anyone could stop them.

Paul pointed weakly after them.

“Cowards.”

Zas did not turn around.

“We survived longer than honour required.”

For once, no one argued.

Chapter 10

Dragon Yard- After the Game

The Buffalo Beasts left the field like men and women returning from something larger than sport.

No shouting.

No excuses.

No smashed coolers.

Just exhaustion.

Physical exhaustion from sixteen innings.

Mental exhaustion from wasting chances.

Emotional exhaustion from watching a teenager become immortal at their expense.

They knew they had failed at the plate.

They also knew Whitney McCarthy had forced much of that failure.

Both truths could exist.

Hailey Zlydasyk was waiting for them near the tunnel entrance.

She had already changed.

Sports bra.

Training shorts.

Hair tied back.

Game face gone.

Only fatigue remained.

When the team approached, she stepped forward immediately.

“My bad,” she said.

No speech.

No self-defense.

No drama.

“I put you all in a rough spot. I’m sorry.”

John Crock waved it off first.

“You put us in a rough spot?”

He pointed down the hall toward the bats.

“We scored zero runs.”

That got tired laughs.

Bucky Leon nodded.

“We had sixteen innings to fix anything.”

Felix Huffman added:

“You care. You lost it. It happens.”

Hailey looked relieved but still unconvinced.

Cheryl Bennett passed by last.

“Learn from it,” she said.

Then kept walking.

Which, from Cheryl, was mercy.

Inside the clubhouse, practical questions returned.

Food.

Ice.

Treatment.

Media.

Sleep.

…and one more thing.

Pia Manus.

The little girl whose foul-ball heartbreak had turned into a promised team photo experience.

No one debated it.

They were keeping that promise.

Immediately.

Crock spoke for everyone.

“We dragged this city through six extra innings. Least we can do is smile for five minutes.”

Cal Raleigh grunted.

“I can smile for three.”

Pauline’s laughter rolled through the room.

Someone added:

“…and Paul and his crew are getting a proper goodbye.”

No one objected.

They were still in Los Auras tomorrow for Game 3.

No airport sprint.

No overnight escape.

No reason to rush except fatigue.

…and fatigue could wait a few more minutes.

Elsewhere in the stadium, the Manus family was processing victory and bedtime simultaneously.

Lucius Manus and Cornelia Manus had moved from Rome to Los Auras years earlier, raising their children under western sun instead of Roman stone.

Now they stood in a concourse full of celebrating Dragons fans while their daughter Pia bounced in oversized team gear and a foam dragon head nearly bigger than she was.

She was ecstatic.

Until she remembered the time.

Cornelia checked her phone.

“It is very late.”

Lucius agreed.

“…and it is a school night.”

Pia froze.

Then her face collapsed.

“No…”

Tears came instantly.

“…but I was good!”

She tugged the foam dragon head dramatically.

“I was so good!”

Beside her, older brother Petrus folded his arms.

“She stole my ice cream.”

Lucius corrected him calmly.

“She prevented it from falling.”

“That is not the same thing.”

“It is adjacent.”

Pia pleaded like a lawyer with no shame.

“I wore the hat.”

“I cheered the whole game.”

“I did not cry when the review happened.”

Cornelia almost smiled.

“Almost.”

Pia pointed triumphantly.

“Still counts.”

Petrus rolled his eyes so hard it looked painful.

Lucius approached a stadium attendant.

“Excuse me- are the photos still happening?”

The attendant checked a radio.

Then smiled.

“Yes, sir. They’re honoring it.”

Pia’s tears ended so fast it looked supernatural.

She gasped.

Jumped.

Then hugged both parents at once.

Cornelia nearly lost balance.

Petrus muttered:

“This family rewards chaos.”

Soon, stadium staff escorted the Manus family through the tunnels toward the field.

Pia walked like royalty.

Foam dragon head crooked.

Jersey untucked.

Pure joy restored.

The lights of Dragon Yard still glowed.

The night still felt impossible.

…and somewhere nearby, exhausted professionals were choosing to keep one promise before finally going home.

The public version of Whitney McCarthy ended at the dugout steps.

The private version began in the training room.

By the time she got inside, the adrenaline that had carried her through sixteen innings was draining fast.

That was when the real cost arrived.

Her legs cramped first.

Both calves seized so hard she nearly folded.

Then came the trembling in her hands.

Then the dizziness.

Then the ache in her shoulder, elbow, lower back, hips, and places she did not yet have names for.

She laughed once when they helped her sit.

Then immediately winced.

The Dragons’ medical staff moved quickly and without ceremony.

Fluids.

Electrolytes.

Compression sleeves.

Shoulder evaluation.

Range-of-motion checks.

Ice wrapped around the shoulder and elbow.

Heat on the lower back.

Shoes removed.

Socks cut off because her calves were too tight to bother fighting them.

Someone handed her food.

Someone else handed her another drink.

Someone asked how many fingers they were holding up.

Whitney answered correctly and asked if they had won by enough.

That got a laugh.

Walking became the next argument.

Whitney wanted to do it herself.

The staff disagreed.

Her legs were unstable, her body depleted, and once the game high fully wore off she nearly buckled trying to stand.

So they brought in a wheelchair.

Whitney hated it instantly.

“This is embarrassing.”

“No,” said the head trainer. “This is efficient.”

Outside the room, media relations made a hard decision.

No cameras.

No press access.

No hallway photos.

No “sources say Whitney collapsed” clips.

No social-media vultures posting cropped wheelchair images and pretending she had destroyed her arm forever.

The message was simple:

Whitney McCarthy is recovering normally after an extraordinary workload. No availability tonight.

Some reporters complained.

The Dragons did not care.

There was one visitor allowed through.

Mark Buehrle

He entered quietly, almost sheepishly, as if not wanting to intrude.

Whitney looked up.

For half a second she froze.

Then all composure vanished.

She stood so quickly the trainers protested.

Ignored them.

Took three uneven steps.

Then launched herself into Buehrle’s arms.

He caught her mostly on instinct.

“What- oh!”

Whitney buried her face into his shoulder and started crying.

Happy, exhausted, overwhelmed tears.

Words tumbled out between breaths.

“You were my favorite-”

“I watched all your stuff-”

“My uncle said I throw too hard but you made pitching look smart-”

“I can’t believe you came-”

“I’m sorry I’m sweaty-”

It was no longer the stone-faced mound assassin.

It was a sixteen-year-old girl meeting one of her heroes.

Buehrle, initially startled, softened immediately.

He patted her back awkwardly, then warmly.

“I’m glad I came.”

When she pulled her head back, still teary-eyed, he looked at her the way veterans look at rare talent.

“You’ve got a future in this game.”

Whitney wiped her face fast.

“I want one.”

“Good,” he said. “Because talent isn’t enough.”

She nodded fiercely.

“I’ll work.”

“I believe you.”

Then he took a marker, wrote a number on the back of a trainer’s clipboard sheet, tore it off, and handed it to her.

“If you ever need advice… mechanics… how to handle nonsense…”

He glanced toward the media hallway.

“…or how to ignore people.”

Whitney stared at it like it was treasure.

“Really?”

“Really.”

She clutched it immediately.

Buehrle smiled, then gently helped lower her back into the wheelchair.

“There.”

Whitney groaned.

“I still hate this thing.”

“You’ll love it in five minutes.”

He pointed toward the ice packs.

“Get some rest.”

Then he gave her shoulder one careful tap and headed for the door.

The room settled again.

Machines hummed.

Ice dripped.

Trainers resumed work.

Whitney looked at the phone number in her hand.

Then at the closed door.

Then finally let herself smile.

For the first time all night, there was nothing left to prove.

Paul’s phone buzzed just as the suite had begun the slow process of accepting that the night was finally over.

He answered immediately.

Hailey Zlydasyk.

Her voice sounded tired, hoarse, and still charged with postgame emotion.

“The team’s staying,” she said. “Pia’s getting everything she was promised.”

Paul smiled.

“Good.”

“I don’t know how long everyone will last,” she continued, “but people want to say goodbye properly to you and your group.”

Paul did not hesitate.

“We’re coming down.”

Across the room, Zasaramel and Arel-Sin were already halfway mentally home.

Zas had stood up with the posture of a man whose suffering was complete.

Arel-Sin was looking for leftovers.

Paul turned to them.

“Change of plans.”

Both froze.

“No,” said Zas instantly.

“We’re invited to meet the team.”

Still no.

“It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

No movement.

“They’re warriors.”

Zas looked over.

Paul added one more piece.

“They may even want to see if you’re up to the challenge of being a ballplayer yourself.”

Now Zas narrowed his eyes.

“A challenge?”

Ruby laughed.

“You manipulative little man.”

Paul bowed slightly.

“Effective little man.”

When they reached the restricted area, Hailey was already waiting.

She saw Paul first and walked straight into a hug before saying a word.

It was not glamorous.

It was tired, grateful, human.

“Thanks for coming,” she said.

“Thanks for surviving,” Paul answered.

She pulled back.

“…and sorry I let you down.”

Paul frowned immediately.

“You didn’t let me down.”

He shrugged.

“A baseball game happened.”

Hailey blinked.

“That is suspiciously measured after a loss.”

Ruby stepped in helpfully.

“He cried like a baby after the last play.”

Hailey burst out laughing.

Paul pointed angrily.

“Selective truth!”

Hailey hugged Iris next, then Luca.

She greeted Ruby and Joanna warmly.

Then she reached Zasaramel.

He gave a formal nod.

“You possess great warrior-ness.”

Hailey blinked.

“…Thank you?”

Then she turned to Arel-Sin.

“…and are you a baseball player too?”

“I play many sports,” he said seriously, “but this one was boring.”

Hailey laughed.

“Fair.”

Then added:

“Give baseball another chance. This game was not exactly a normal sample.”

“That is true,” Arel-Sin admitted.

Then Jose Trevino rolled out Whitney McCarthy in the wheelchair.

Whitney still looked drained.

…but she was glowing.

Whatever pain she felt was currently losing to adrenaline and joy.

She held a folded slip of paper like sacred text.

Paul spotted it immediately.

“That Mark Buehrle’s number?”

Whitney grinned.

“Yes.”

Paul wagged a finger.

“He’s a married man.”

Whitney gave him the flat stare reserved for idiots.

“I know, goof.”

Everyone laughed.

Then Paul softened.

“I hated every second of what you did to us.”

Beat.

“…but I appreciate it.”

Whitney nodded sincerely.

“That means a lot.”

The others congratulated her too.

Iris especially looked at Whitney like the future had become visible.

Luca offered a respectful handshake.

Ruby and Joanna praised the performance with fan hysteria.

Then Zas stepped forward.

“You are a true warrior.”

Whitney blushed instantly.

“Uh… thanks.”

She looked around helplessly.

“I kind of want to hug everyone but I literally can’t.”

“Reasonable,” Luca said.

So everyone settled for touching shoulders, hands, or brief leaned-in greetings around the chair.

Next came Jenna Myers, still in partial uniform, hair damp, face glowing with the joy of someone who had scored the winning run in a game that would never die.

Ruby and Joanna congratulated her loudly.

Jenna laughed.

“I wasn’t sure what I was going to do if they called me out on review.”

Paul folded his arms.

“We’d have won in the seventeenth.”

“No you wouldn’t,” Ruby said as Hailey chuckled.

“Probably not,” Paul admitted.

Jenna then bent down, wrapped both arms around Whitney from behind, and announced:

“She’s the true warrior.”

Whitney laughed.

“I accept this title.”

Then Jose Melendez emerged.

He saw Paul first.

“Sorry we lost.”

Paul sighed theatrically.

“Me too.”

Jose looked past him at Ruby and Joanna.

“…and you brought enemies.”

Paul put a hand to his chest.

“I apologize. I couldn’t get them to see greatness.”

Ruby and Joanna immediately rebuked him from both sides.

Traitor.

Coward.

Weak man.

Paul accepted all charges.

Then Jose noticed Zasaramel.

Stopped walking.

Looked up.

Then up a little more.

“Good lord.”

Luca grinned.

“I think he could hit five hundred home runs in one game.”

Jose fired back instantly.

“Can he do it against real pitching?”

The room laughed.

Zas raised a hand modestly.

“I prefer not to perform.”

Peer pressure descended immediately.

No one respected his preference.

Crock yelled from somewhere down the hall:

“CAGE!”

Whitney pointed dramatically from the wheelchair.

“Take him!”

Arel-Sin lit up for the first time in hours.

“Yes.”

…and so, after sixteen innings of history, exhaustion, and emotional collapse, a fresh crowd began walking toward the indoor batting cage.

Because baseball, like madness, had one more scene left in it.

The smart move would have been to leave.

Shower.

Eat.

Sleep.

Forget the longest game of the season.

Instead, nearly both teams drifted toward the indoor batting cages.

Because exhaustion loses arguments when curiosity is involved.

…and everyone wanted to see whether Zasaramel—the sculpted outsider who looked carved from old stone—could actually hit a baseball.

John Crock had already claimed a stool.

Beside him sat Felix Huffman with a popcorn bowl so large it looked ceremonial.

They shared it with exaggerated seriousness.

Crock shoveled handfuls in like a man studying film.

Felix ate one kernel at a time while offering useless scouting notes.

“He’s pull-happy.”

“He hasn’t swung yet,” said Luca.

“Instinct,” Felix replied.

Several players offered Zas bats.

Heavy bats.

Light bats.

Balanced bats.

Custom bats.

He held each one, weighed it, flexed it, judged it like a swordsman in a market.

Then chose Luke Raley’s.

The room reacted instantly.

“Raley?” Crock shouted.

“Of all these?”

Zas nodded.

“This one speaks honestly.”

No one knew what that meant.

Raley looked weirdly honored.

The pitching machine whirred alive.

First ball.

Zas barely saw it.

It smacked the catcher’s net untouched.

Second ball.

Late swing.

Third ball.

He flinched.

Arel-Sin laughed uncontrollably.

Then Zas narrowed his eyes.

Adaptation began.

He shortened the move.

Quieted the hands.

Tracked the release point.

Soon he was fouling pitches off.

Then lining them.

Then launching them.

One after another, balls screamed into the back netting or cleared the practice fence entirely.

The room erupted each time.

Luca folded his arms and smirked at everyone.

“I told you so.”

Paul muttered:

“I hate when he’s right.”

Jose Melendez stepped forward.

“Machine balls don’t count.”

He took the mound.

Zas smiled slightly.

“At last.”

Pitch One: Curveball

Big break.

Zas swung at where it had been.

Missed by a mile.

The room howled.

Pitch Two: Fastball

Straight challenge.

Zas was late.

Missed again.

Pitch Three: Changeup

Zas geared up.

Way early.

Almost spun himself around.

Melendez laughed openly now.

He mixed speeds, changed eye levels, and let Zas feel what professional deception actually was.

The giant warrior looked less like a conqueror and more like a man fighting bees.

Finally Melendez softened and floated another changeup.

Zas adjusted just enough and lifted it into shallow outfield space.

A clean hit.

Melendez smiled and tipped an imaginary cap.

“Now you’re learning.”

Then Rosario Beal took the mound.

That changed the mood entirely.

Players backed up to watch.

Luca whispered to Zas:

“Good luck.”

“What does she throw?”

“Problems.”

Pitch One: Palmball

It floated, died, vanished.

Zas swung three business days early.

Pitch Two: 12–6 Curve

Started high.

Dropped like divine punishment.

Zas nearly hit the dirt.

Pitch Three: Knucklecurve

It wobbled, then snapped.

Zas missed so badly Crock spilled popcorn laughing.

Pitch Four: Screwball

Ran opposite everything his body expected.

Zas shouted something in a language no one knew.

Then glared at Rosario.

“What voodoo lives in your arm?”

Rosario bowed theatrically.

“Ancient secrets.”

Luca laughed so hard he had to lean on the cage.

“Rosario, stop humiliating him.”

“No.”

Zas refused to quit.

Rosario refused mercy.

For ten brutal minutes she sent oddity after oddity toward him.

Late breaks.

Dead drops.

Side spins.

Soft floats.

Every time he adjusted, she changed.

Every time he guessed, she punished it.

Finally, she challenged him.

A firmer pitch.

Cleaner path.

Zas stayed back.

Swung.

CRACK.

Line drive into the net.

The cage exploded.

Players cheered louder than some had during the game.

Crock threw popcorn in celebration.

Felix nearly fell off the stool laughing.

Rosario applauded with genuine respect.

“Well done, warrior.”

Zas exhaled deeply.

“This sport is ridiculous.”

Arel-Sin looked up at his father.

“So… do you like baseball now?”

Zas thought for a long moment.

Then answered honestly.

“I like revenge.”

…and for once, everyone agreed that was close enough.

After Zasaramel’s batting-cage triumph, common sense finally tried to re-enter the room.

People were limping.

People were icing.

People were hungry enough to become dangerous.

Paul clapped his hands once.

“Alright. We’re leaving for dinner.”

Arel-Sin shot upright faster than at any point during the game.

“At last.”

Hailey Zlydasyk, toweling off sweat from the cage session, looked over.

“Where?”

Paul shrugged.

“I was thinking of trying a Mexican place a friend recommended a while ago.”

Whitney McCarthy, still in the wheelchair near the cage entrance, heard this instantly.

Her head snapped up.

“Tacos?”

Paul looked at her.

“Potentially.”

Whitney sat forward.

“Like… real tacos?”

“Supposedly.”

Whitney slapped the armrest dramatically.

“I don’t care about my diet.”

Hailey frowned.

“You should.”

“I don’t care about my condition.”

“You definitely should.”

Whitney pointed accusingly.

“I just threw sixteen perfect innings. I want gigantic, juicy tacos and quesadillas.”

The room supported this logic immediately.

Hailey crossed her arms.

“People can’t see her like this.”

Paul waved that away.

“I’ll arrange a private entrance.”

“You can do that?”

“I know people.”

Luca coughed.

“He bothers people until they help.”

“Networking,” Paul corrected.

Whitney raised a hand.

“I support whatever gets me tacos unseen.”

Hailey sighed.

“I’m coming then.”

Crock pointed to himself.

“I’m in.”

Luke Raley lifted the bat Zas had used.

“I’m coming too.”

He walked over to Zas, signed the barrel, and handed it over.

“For choosing greatness.”

Zas accepted solemnly.

“This weapon served well.”

Raley looked deeply pleased.

Jenna Myers, still buzzing from scoring the winning run, entered next.

“I feel like celebrating, so I’m coming too.”

Ruby approved instantly.

“Correct attitude.”

Arel-Sin raised a hand.

“I would also like tacos in celebration of surviving.”

Before anyone moved, Crock slowed near Whitney.

The joking energy softened.

He rubbed the back of his neck.

“Hey.”

Whitney looked up.

Crock took a breath.

“I punched you during the brawl.”

Whitney nodded.

“You did.”

“That was low.”

No excuses.

No speech.

“No business doing that.”

Whitney studied him.

Crock continued.

“I’ll buy dinner.”

Beat.

“…and if recovery costs anything, I’ll help there too.”

The room got quiet.

Whitney could usually sense nonsense quickly.

This was not nonsense.

She smiled slightly.

“I can eventually forgive you.”

Crock grinned.

“Eventually is workable.”

Then Whitney added:

“You still throw punches worse than I throw forkballs.”

The room exploded laughing.

Crock pointed.

“That’s fair.”

Jose Trevino began wheeling Whitney toward the hallway.

She raised both arms dramatically.

“To tacos!”

The team answered with tired cheers.

Paul shook his head.

“You became unbearable fast.”

“I broke records,” Whitney said. “I earned unbearable.”

So after sixteen innings, history, tears, rage, chaos, and indoor batting-cage nonsense, a mixed convoy of players, friends, warriors, skeptics, and one very hungry phenom headed into Los Auras night life in search of food.

Zas carried the signed bat.

Arel-Sin carried leftovers.

Whitney carried the room.

…and for the first time all day, everyone was smiling without pressure.

The Restaurant

The restaurant had been warned a large group was coming.

It had not been warned that part of the group would include:

• players from both clubs
• one exhausted teenage legend in a wheelchair
• a towering warrior carrying a signed bat
• a child in a foam dragon head
• and Paul Carney talking like he owned the place

So the staff needed a moment.

Then they recognized Whitney McCarthy.

Then the entire mood changed.

Whitney was placed at the center of the largest pushed-together table.

Not by design.

By gravity.

Everyone naturally arranged around her.

Plates began appearing almost immediately.

Street tacos.

Loaded tacos.

Quesadillas.

Rice.

Beans.

Chips.

Guacamole.

Sizzling platters.

Some giant burrito no one remembered ordering.

Whitney stared at it all in wonder.

“I love this country.”

Hailey pointed at her.

“You live here.”

“I love it more now.”

Then Whitney began eating with the focus she had shown on the mound.

Only happier.

When Paul asked for the bill situation, the manager came personally.

He shook Whitney’s hand.

Told her what she did tonight was unforgettable.

Then announced:

“Her meal is on us.”

The restaurant applauded.

Whitney raised both hands triumphantly.

“I am never paying for food again.”

Hailey immediately answered:

“You absolutely are.”

Whitney was already halfway through a quesadilla and chose not to hear this.

This created an issue for John Crock.

He had planned to buy Whitney dinner as part of his apology.

Now dinner had been comped.

He looked genuinely annoyed.

“I had one noble gesture ready.”

Whitney laughed through a mouthful of taco.

“You can still pay for recovery.”

Crock thought.

“Fine. Dessert and physical therapy.”

“Deal.”

They shook on it solemnly.

Paul pointed.

“This is legally binding in my view.”

Naturally, attention eventually shifted to Zasaramel.

Several players wanted to know what he thought of baseball now that he had faced the machine, Jose Melendez, and Rosario Beal.

Zas considered carefully before answering.

“I was humbled.”

The table quieted.

He continued.

“I thought strength alone would matter.”

He nodded toward the players.

“It does not.”

Then toward Whitney.

“Control matters.”

Toward Rosario.

“Deception matters.”

Toward Felix Huffman.

“Skill matters.”

Then finally:

“You are all great warriors.”

There was silence for one beat.

Then Crock slammed the table.

“I’m putting that on a T-shirt.”

Felix wiped fake tears.

“That’s the nicest thing anyone has said to me.”

Rosario bowed from across the room.

Arel-Sin had no interest in speeches.

He was three tacos deep and emotionally restored.

Someone asked him what he thought of the night.

He swallowed first.

“This taco is better than baseball.”

The table erupted laughing.

He thought again.

“The quesadilla is close.”

Whitney pointed dramatically.

“He speaks truth.”

Paul was happiest now.

Surrounded by players.

Telling stories.

Arguing about calls from the game.

Reenacting Riley’s full-count at-bat with unnecessary body language.

Claiming the strike zone had become corrupt after inning twelve.

Ruby and Joanna heckled him constantly.

Whenever he got too dramatic, Hailey would lightly kick his chair leg.

He never stopped.

At the other end of the table, Pia Manus was still wearing the foam dragon head.

She had already met players, taken photos, received signed items, and now sat eating fries like someone who had conquered life itself.

Petrus Manus, older brother dignity intact, kept reminding everyone she stole his ice cream earlier.

Lucius Manus corrected him every time.

“She rescued it.”

Cornelia Manus had given up intervening.

Whitney finished one plate.

Then another.

Then asked quietly if anyone was still eating the nachos.

“No,” said everyone at once.

She pulled them closer.

Hailey looked at her in disbelief.

“You threw sixteen innings.”

“Yes.”

“You’re tiny.”

“Yes.”

“Where is it going?”

Whitney shrugged.

“Into history.”

The restaurant was loud in the pleasant way.

Laughter.

Plates clattering.

Whitney demanding someone pass the salsa.

Paul arguing about strike zones.

Too much warmth.

Too much noise.

So Zasaramel stepped outside to the smoking section.

Not to smoke.

Just to breathe.

The night air was cooler here, touched by grease, pavement, and city salt.

He stood alone for a moment, hands folded behind his back, letting the chaos of the evening settle.

Then he noticed movement beyond the fenced smoking patio.

Near the dumpsters, under a yellow security light, a woman was sorting through bags and boxes.

Thin coat.

Layered clothes.

Fast hands practiced by repetition.

A homeless woman searching for food.

Restaurant staff nearby saw her too.

Their faces showed annoyance.

No one moved to help.

Zas stared.

Then turned toward the nearest employee.

“Why do you allow this?”

The worker blinked.

“Allow what?”

“This.”

Zas gestured toward the woman.

“She searches refuse beside a palace of excess.”

The worker glanced at the dumpster diver, then back at Zas.

“It’s complicated.”

“It is dishonourable.”

The worker lowered his voice.

“Look, first thing? Optics.”

Zas gave him a look sharp enough to cut rope.

The worker sighed.

“Yeah, I know how that sounds.”

He continued anyway.

“If people see someone being fed outside the front door, some customers complain. Others think we’re attracting it. Management worries about image.”

Zas slowly turned his head toward the glowing restaurant sign.

“You choose image over hunger.”

“I didn’t say I agree with it.”

That mattered, but only slightly.

The worker leaned against the wall.

“Second issue- they think if you feed one person, more come.”

Zas answered immediately.

“Then more are hungry.”

The worker rubbed his forehead.

“I know.”

He continued.

“Some people are fine. Some are not. Some yell. Some fight. Some demand money, not food. Some camp outside. Then customers complain again, police get called, staff deal with it.”

Zas listened.

He did not like the logic.

…but he recognized it as fear disguised as management.

“The biggest issue,” the worker said, “is liability.”

Zas frowned.

“What is that?”

“We hand someone food. They say it made them sick. They sue the restaurant.”

Zas stared blankly for a beat.

“They punish generosity?”

“Sometimes.”

“That is insane.”

“Welcome to civilization.”

The worker pointed with his chin toward the street.

“We donate to food banks. Shelters. Outreach groups.”

Then added:

“…and ownership invested in the Communal Unity Mosaic program.”

That got Zas’s attention.

He knew of the Mosaic- mass sheltering, dormitories, rough mercy wrapped in bureaucracy.

“It exists here?”

“Supposed to expand here.”

The worker shrugged.

“Supposed to.”

“We’ve pushed for a Mosaic Open Dormitories building nearby,” the worker said.

“Beds, showers, lockers, intake staff. Better than dumpsters.”

Zas nodded immediately.

“Then build it.”

The worker laughed once, bitterly.

“Neighborhood doesn’t want it.”

Zas looked genuinely confused.

“They do not want the hungry housed?”

“They say traffic. Crime. Noise. Property values. Safety. Parking.”

He ticked them off with dead eyes.

“They always have reasons.”

“What is this called?” Zas asked.

“NIMBY.”

“That is a warrior clan?”

The worker smirked despite himself.

“No.”

He spelled it out.

“Not In My Back Yard.”

Zas was silent for several seconds.

Then shook his head slowly.

“You create shelters in theory.”

“Yes.”

“You praise compassion publicly.”

“Yes.”

“You refuse buildings privately.”

“Usually.”

Zas looked back at the woman by the dumpster.

“This realm is full of cowards who speak in committees.”

The worker exhaled through his nose.

“You’d fit in city council.”

The woman kept sorting.

The restaurant kept serving.

Inside, cheers rose as someone likely told another exaggerated baseball story.

Outside, the city looked less polished.

Zas remained where he was, watching both worlds exist within twenty feet of each other.

Zasaramel watched the woman across the lot for another long moment.

Then turned back to the worker.

“May I buy food for her?”

The worker blinked, surprised by the simplicity of the question.

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s allowed.”

Zas nodded once and immediately went back inside.

The restaurant was still loud with celebration.

Whitney was midway through explaining why a second quesadilla was medically necessary.

Paul was reenacting a missed strike call with a tortilla chip.

No one noticed Zas at first.

Then he found Luca.

“I require assistance.”

Luca stood at once.

“With what?”

Zas gestured toward the counter where he had ordered enough food for three people.

“A mission.”

Luca smiled.

“That usually means trouble.”

They carried out containers packed with tacos, rice, beans, chips, bottled water, and utensils.

Arel-Sin shouted after them:

“If there is extra, I volunteer.”

When they stepped outside again, the scene had changed.

Two police cruisers.

Lights off, but present.

Three officers.

The woman had retreated partly behind the dumpster enclosure.

The officers were ordering her to leave.

She was shouting back that she had done nothing wrong.

One officer reached in and grabbed her arm.

Another took her other side.

They pulled her out roughly when she resisted.

Too roughly.

Zas stiffened instantly.

Luca muttered:

“Ah, hell.”

Zas strode forward before Luca could stop him.

“She is hungry, not armed.”

One of the officers turned.

Broad frame. Tired eyes. Annoyed expression.

Badge: Turnbull.

“Back up.”

Zas held up the food containers.

“We brought food.”

Turnbull smirked and reached for the bag.

“We’ll take that.”

Zas pulled it back immediately.

“No.”

That changed the air.

Turnbull stepped closer.

“You want to make this difficult?”

He reached again, less for the food than for dominance.

Zas did not move.

Every muscle in him said otherwise.

Luca moved fast.

Not because he doubted Zas.

Because he understood exactly what came next if Zas reacted.

One shove.

One defensive movement.

Then the report would read:

Aggressive male interfered with officers.

So Luca stepped directly between them.

Hands open.

Voice calm.

“Officer Turnbull.”

He looked at the badge deliberately.

Then the nameplate.

“I’ve got your name.”

Turnbull frowned.

“Who are you?”

“Someone who knows supervisors.”

Luca’s tone stayed polite.

“…and someone who thinks yours won’t love hearing you roughing up a homeless woman and provoking citizens trying to feed her.”

The other two officers suddenly became interested in leaving.

Turnbull glared at Luca.

Then at Zas.

Then back at the woman, who had used the distraction to scramble across the road.

He spat one final look and motioned his partners away.

The cruisers rolled off.

The woman now stood under a streetlamp on the far sidewalk.

Clutching herself.

Watching everyone with the suspicion of someone trained by life to trust no one.

Zas looked at her.

“She may stay with me.”

Luca answered instantly.

“No.”

Zas turned sharply.

“You object to compassion?”

“I object to bad plans.”

Zas folded his arms.

“I have done this before.”

“With Raven,” Luca said.

“Yes.”

“…and you got lucky.”

Zas’s expression darkened.

Luca continued before anger could grow.

“Raven wanted help.”

“She could accept help.”

“She could live inside rules.”

He pointed gently across the street.

“You do not know this woman.”

“You do not know what she needs.”

“You do not know what follows her.”

“You do not know what she would do in your home—or what your home would do to her.”

Zas said nothing.

The logic landed even if he disliked it.

Luca softened.

“The instinct is good.”

“The plan is bad.”

After a moment, Zas nodded once.

“I hate that you are wise.”

“I hear that often.”

They crossed the street slowly.

Luca did the talking first.

“No police. Just food.”

The woman eyed them both, especially Zas.

Then accepted the containers.

Her hands trembled.

She opened one immediately.

Real hunger moved faster than dignity.

Luca handed her a business card.

“There’s a shelter I can call.”

He pointed down the block.

“Church two streets over may let you sleep inside tonight.”

“…and I know someone tied to the Mosaic program.”

She took the card without promising anything.

That, Luca knew, was normal.

On the walk back, Zas was quiet.

Inside the restaurant, laughter burst again as Whitney apparently ordered dessert after claiming she was “physically required” to.

The warm noise spilled through the doorway.

Zas looked back once toward the streetlamp.

Then entered with Luca beside him.

Zasaramel came back in with Luca, but the energy that returned with them was not the same one that had left.

The table was still alive.

Whitney was debating whether churros counted as recovery fuel.

Paul was telling a story no one fully believed.

Pia Manus had somehow acquired extra fries.

…but Zas sat down quietly.

Too quietly.

He looked at the food in front of him and did not touch it.

After a long moment, he said:

“I wish to leave.”

The table paused.

Ruby leaned forward first.

“What’s wrong?”

Joanna’s tone softened.

“Zas?”

He looked down at the spread of food.

“I cannot feast like a king while others live in squalor beside the wall.”

No one understood.

Then Luca explained about the woman outside.

The table fell quieter.

Even Whitney stopped chewing.

Zas spoke again.

“In the Blade, if people needed help, you helped them.”

“No forms.”

“No committees.”

“No speeches.”

“No hiding behind bureaucracy.”

He said the last word like it tasted rotten.

“To me it sounds like an excuse to do nothing.”

No one interrupted.

Then Zas looked off somewhere farther than the restaurant.

“Sometimes I wonder why I left the Blade at all.”

That landed like broken glass.

Whitney slowly lowered a taco.

Paul stopped talking entirely.

Ruby and Joanna exchanged a look.

Arel-Sin, sensing the gravity without understanding all of it, set down his food.

The group moved quickly—not to attack him, but to rescue him from a false conclusion.

Paul pointed around the table.

“First of all- how many Mexican restaurants are in the Blade?”

That got a few involuntary smiles.

Zas did not answer.

“Because I’m guessing the answer is zero.”

Whitney added immediately:

“…and if they do have tacos there, they’re definitely bad.”

That got a snort from Arel-Sin.

Ruby leaned in.

“Would you have met Paul in the Blade?”

Zas looked at Paul.

Paul placed a hand on his chest.

“Many say no one should meet me.”

“Answer,” Ruby insisted.

Zas shook his head slowly.

“No.”

Joanna continued.

“Would you have met us?”

Again:

“No.”

Luca took over.

“You built a life here.”

“You met your wives here.”

“You built a family here.”

“You gave Arel-Sin options here.”

He gestured toward the younger man.

“Would he have those same options in the Blade?”

Zas looked at his son.

Arel-Sin answered for himself.

“I like options.”

Joanna spoke next.

“You left because you wanted stability.”

“Safety.”

“A future.”

She looked at him directly.

“…and you found it.”

Zas said nothing.

Because that part was true.

Then Luca gave the point that mattered most.

“Yes, in the Blade everyone says everyone helps everyone.”

Zas nodded once.

Luca continued:

“How many people actually get helped?”

No answer.

“How many stay poor?”

“How many survive but never rise?”

“How many strong men take from weak ones and call it order?”

Now Zas did answer.

Quietly.

“Many.”

Luca nodded.

“You’ve seen it.”

Paul spread his arms.

“This place has failures. Real ones.”

He pointed toward the door.

“That woman outside is one of them.”

“We do badly by many people. Sometimes shamefully.”

He let that sit.

“…but most people here can build something.”

“A trade.”

“A business.”

“A family.”

“A better life than where they started.”

He pointed at Zas.

“You did.”

Zas sat with that for a long time.

Then he nodded.

Slowly.

“I understand.”

He looked around the table.

“…and I thank you for your perspective.”

Then, because he was Zas, he added:

“I should still leave.”

Everyone groaned.

“Because,” Zas said gravely, “I have ruined everyone’s night.”

Whitney immediately pointed a churro at him.

“No you didn’t.”

Paul added:

“You created emotional depth between tacos.”

Ruby laughed.

“That’s premium entertainment.”

Joanna reached over and squeezed his forearm.

“Tonight was a life lesson.”

Arel-Sin resumed eating.

“…and the tacos are still warm.”

That seemed to settle the matter.

Zas looked around the table.

At friends.

At laughter.

At absurdity.

At people who had argued him back into hope.

Then he picked up a taco.

The table cheered as if another game had been won.

Once the storm in his mind passed, Zasaramel returned to the table.

He ate properly now.

Not distractedly.

Not guiltily.

Whitney immediately slid another taco onto his plate as if restoring order.

“No brooding while food exists.”

Zas accepted this decree.

Hailey smiled at him from across the table.

“You’ve got a good heart.”

Crock nodded.

“Yeah.”

Then added in veteran fashion:

“Just don’t let it eat you alive.”

Zas looked between them.

“I am difficult to consume.”

“That’s not what she meant,” said Paul.

“I know,” said Zas.

Eventually even a night like this had to end.

Bills settled.

Containers packed.

Phones checked.

Yawns admitted.

People began peeling off in clusters.

Whitney’s departure became its own event.

Because no one wanted to be the person who gave the record-breaking phenom an awkward goodbye.

So they improvised a large, careful, safe group hug around the wheelchair.

No shoulder pressure.

No sudden leaning.

No tipping risk.

Whitney laughed the whole time.

“This is the most managed affection I’ve ever received.”

“You earned it,” said Ruby.

Paul added:

“You also need suspension supports.”

Then Hailey pulled Iris aside.

She wrote a number on a napkin, then thought better of it and put it directly into Iris’s phone.

“If you ever need advice…”

Iris nodded furiously.

“Okay!”

“Coaching…”

Another nod.

“Or just a friend.”

Iris made a sound nearly identical to the one Whitney had made when Mark Buehrle gave her his number.

Then she hugged Hailey hard.

“Thank you thank you thank you!”

Hailey laughed.

“You’re welcome, kid.”

Luca watched with the expression of a man who knew he would now hear about this for weeks.

As Luca and Iris prepared to leave, Zas stopped him.

“You helped me tonight.”

Luca shrugged.

“You were trying to do the right thing.”

“That is when I am most dangerous.”

“That’s why I helped.”

They shook hands.

Firmly.

No performance.

Mutual respect.

Iris waved dramatically to everyone and left with Luca into the Los Auras night.

Soon the crowd thinned further.

Then thinner still.

Until only:

• Paul
• Zasaramel
• Joanna
• Ruby
• Arel-Sin
• Hailey

remained.

Hailey stretched.

“You all want to come up to the suite?”

Paul answered instantly.

“Yes.”

Arel-Sin asked the only relevant question.

“Are there snacks?”

“There are always snacks.”

“I’m in.”

When they entered, Felix Huffman was already there in lounge clothes, feet up, watching a movie like none of history had happened.

She looked over casually.

“Oh. You all lived.”

Arel-Sin stopped in the doorway.

The suite was immense.

Glass walls.

City view.

Luxury furniture.

Two levels.

A kitchen larger than some apartments.

He turned slowly.

“This is absurd.”

Felix nodded.

“It helps with losses.”

Once everyone settled, Hailey turned toward Zas.

“I want to know more about the Carnelian Blade.”

Zas stiffened mildly.

“I have noticed.”

She leaned forward.

“I’ve read about it. But reading about somewhere and hearing from someone who lived it are different things.”

Ruby pointed a thumb at him.

“We’ve been trying for years.”

Joanna nodded.

“He refuses.”

Zas folded his arms.

“I do not refuse.”

“You absolutely refuse,” said both women at once.

Zas sighed.

“I do not speak of it often because I do not wish to mythologize it.”

Hailey frowned thoughtfully.

“I don’t think talking about it mythologizes it.”

She gestured around the room.

“It helps people understand.”

That gave him pause.

Paul quietly grabbed popcorn.

He sensed quality material approaching.

Hailey smiled.

“I’d read a book of your stories.”

Zas looked at her.

Then answered dryly:

“You are not the first to say that.”

Felix muted the movie.

Arel-Sin sat upright.

Ruby grinned.

Joanna pointed dramatically.

“There.”

Paul clapped once.

“We are getting somewhere.”

Zasaramel sat back in the suite chair, arms folded, looking less like a warrior now and more like a man searching through old boxes in his mind.

He was not avoiding the question.

He genuinely did not know where to begin.

“There are too many stories,” he said at last.

“Too many roads. Too many mistakes. Too many things that sound false when spoken aloud.”

Paul tossed popcorn into his mouth.

“Good. Those are usually the best ones.”

Zas ignored him.

“When I still lived in the Blade,” Zas said, “many told me never to leave.”

Hailey leaned in immediately.

“Why?”

“Because they said North Americans were selfish.”

He counted on his fingers.

“Decadent.”

“Soft.”

“Greedy.”

He paused.

“…and that they would never embrace a foreigner like me.”

Ruby rolled her eyes.

“Classic.”

Zas continued.

“They said North Americans would never allow me into their wealth. That they would smile politely while keeping every door closed.”

He looked around the suite.

“At times, I believed them.”

Then he gestured to the room.

“I was proven wrong.”

He grew quieter.

“Yet tonight still jarred me.”

No one joked now.

He looked toward the window, where the city lights glowed below.

“To see a hungry woman outside a restaurant full of abundance…”

He searched for the right phrase.

“It felt wrong in the bones.”

Hailey nodded slowly.

“That’s fair.”

Zas added:

“I thought the restaurant surely had more money than Paul.”

Paul pointed indignantly.

“Excuse me.”

Then corrected him.

“Restaurants often run on thin margins. Staff, rent, food costs, insurance, taxes, waste, payroll. It’s not dragon treasure.”

Felix, still half-watching the muted movie, raised a finger.

“He’s annoyingly right.”

Paul bowed from the couch.

“I was not naïve,” Zas continued.

“I knew North America had poor people.”

“I knew it had wealth inequality.”

“I knew not everyone lived like kings.”

He looked at them each in turn.

“I knew this before I left the Blade.”

“So what surprised you?” asked Joanna.

“The visibility.”

That landed.

“To see poverty standing in neon light beside wealth.”

He tapped the armrest once.

“I thought a place this rich would have systems that handled such things.”

“It does,” said Felix. “It does have systems.”

Hailey then counted them off.

“Shelters.”

“Food banks.”

Transitional housing.”

“Churches.”

“Public programs.”

“Subsidies.”

“Outreach.”

Then she shrugged.

“They just don’t work well enough.”

“Or consistently enough,” added Ruby.

“Or are too hard to access,” said Joanna.

“Or get underfunded,” said Paul.

“Or get fought politically,” said Felix.

“Or buried in forms,” said Hailey.

The room briefly enjoyed how many ways a thing could fail.

Zas was not done.

“Do North Americans hide behind these systems?”

He asked it plainly.

“As a means of not helping one another directly?”

Silence held for a beat.

Then Hailey answered first.

“It’s not that simple.”

“As I understand,” Hailey said carefully, “In the Blade everyone helps everyone because everyone starts near the same baseline.”

Zas listened.

She continued.

“If everyone around you is poor, unstable, or one bad week from disaster, then helping might mean sharing food.”

“Giving someone a bedroll.”

“Watching their child.”

“Standing guard.”

“Fixing a roof.”

“One night at a time.”

Zas nodded.

“Yes.”

“That is exactly so.”

Hailey leaned forward.

“…but here, when people say someone needs help, they often mean something bigger.”

She began counting on her fingers.

“A stable income.”

“A permanent home.”

“Transportation.”

“Childcare.”

“Healthcare.”

“Addiction treatment.”

“Training.”

“A chance at a job.”

“Enough money that next month isn’t another emergency.”

She looked at Zas directly.

“That’s more than one person can usually provide.”

“Even rich people.”

Paul raised a hand.

“I appreciate being excluded from that category.”

“The systems are supposed to do what individuals can’t,” Hailey said.

“Take lots of resources, organize them, and create stability at scale.”

She sighed.

“They just fail too many people.”

“Way too many,” Ruby added.

“So then,” Zas said slowly, “your compassion became institutional.”

“…and then inefficient,” Felix muttered.

Paul pointed at her.

“That was poetic.”

“I contain layers.”

Zas sat with the distinction.

In the Blade, mercy was immediate.

Crude, small, personal.

In North America, mercy was procedural.

Larger in theory.

Slower in practice.

Sometimes absent entirely.

He rubbed his jaw.

“So a man may wish to help…”

“Yes,” said Hailey.

“…but be unequal to the task.”

“Yes.”

“…and then trust a machine.”

“Yes.”

“…and the machine may fail.”

“Yes.”

He exhaled.

“That is maddening.”

“Welcome to modern governance,” said Paul.

Zasaramel sat for a moment, then spoke plainly.

“So you justify your wealth by saying you help others.”

Paul immediately pointed.

“No.”

Hailey shook her head.

“Not what we meant.”

Felix laughed from the couch.

“He’s cross-examining now.”

Paul leaned forward.

“We were explaining limits.”

“Why we can’t help everyone, even if we wanted to.”

Hailey nodded.

“That’s different from saying charity is why we deserve what we have.”

She folded her hands.

“If you’re asking why I think I’m wealthy…”

She answered without hesitation.

“Because I worked extremely hard.”

Then added just as fast:

“…and because I got extremely lucky.”

That got Zas’s full attention.

Hailey continued.

“I trained obsessively.”

“I played hurt.”

“I sacrificed years.”

“I performed when it counted.”

“All true.”

She pointed at herself.

“But there are plenty of people who work hard too.”

“Some are talented.”

“Some are better than people who made it.”

“Some never get called up.”

“Some tear a knee.”

“Some peak at the wrong time.”

“Some get buried behind the wrong coach.”

She shrugged.

“I’ve seen a lot of good players never become rich.”

The room respected that truth.

Paul picked it up.

“Same in business.”

“Some people grind for years and fail.”

“Some have great ideas and bad timing.”

“Some have average ideas and perfect timing.”

“Some inherit connections.”

“Some get wiped out by one recession.”

He tapped the table.

“I worked hard.”

“I also benefited from circumstances.”

He said it matter-of-factly.

“Pretending otherwise would be vanity.”

Paul pointed at Zas.

“…and you know this from wrestling.”

Zas nodded slowly.

“I do.”

He thought of names.

Talented people who never got booked.

Better workers passed over for prettier ones.

Bodies broken before opportunity came.

Crowds cheering mediocrity while craftsmen starved.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I know.”

Hailey spoke again.

“So who gets wealthy and who doesn’t…”

She spread her hands.

“…is not always fair.”

“That doesn’t mean I like it.”

“It means I recognize it.”

Paul added:

“Reality doesn’t ask whether we approve.”

Ruby muttered:

“Annoyingly.”

Zas looked at them carefully.

“I hear many who blame the poor.”

That changed Hailey’s tone immediately.

“I don’t.”

She answered with no hesitation.

“Yes, some people are poor because they refuse effort.”

“They exist.”

“…but they are not the majority.”

She leaned in.

“Many people are poor because life handed them bad cards.”

“Bad parents.”

“Bad schools.”

“Bad health.”

“Bad neighborhoods.”

“Bad timing.”

“One accident.”

“One addiction.”

“One layoff.”

“One abusive partner.”

“One rent increase.”

“One injury.”

“One mental break.”

She sat back.

“That’s reality too.”

“So here’s where I stand,” she said.

“I’m grateful I became wealthy.”

“I know I’m fortunate.”

“I don’t look down on people who didn’t.”

“I try to help where I can.”

“I support causes.”

“I help people personally.”

“I speak up.”

“…but I cannot help everyone.”

“…and I can’t personally reverse how society works.”

She gave a tired half-smile.

“I’d need a lot more than a bat for that.”

Paul raised his hand.

“Same.”

Then added:

“I’d just need less bat.”

That got a laugh.

…but he turned serious again.

“I want a society where more people can rise.”

“I think incentives matter.”

“I think responsibility matters.”

“I also think bad luck is real.”

“Cruel luck.”

“…and if you ignore that, you become stupid.”

Zas sat quietly, absorbing all of it.

In the Blade, wealth was often theft.

In North America, wealth could be effort, timing, luck, leverage, inheritance, talent, or all of them mixed together.

Messier.

Less cleanly evil.

Less cleanly noble.

More difficult.

He nodded slowly.

“You do not worship wealth.”

“No,” said Hailey.

“We navigate it.”

Paul added:

“Poorly, sometimes.”

The suite quieted into thoughtful calm.

Even Felix muted the movie entirely now.

Arel-Sin, who had only followed half of it, summarized the night in his own way:

“So… everyone is confused.”

Paul pointed proudly.

“He gets economics.”

Arel-Sin smiled while reaching for more snacks.

The room had reached that late-night point where serious conversations became bold suggestions.

Paul pointed at Zasaramel with the confidence of a man who never feared being wrong.

“You should go into politics.”

Zas blinked once.

“No.”

Too quick.

Too certain.

Ruby laughed.

“That means maybe.”

“It means no.”

Joanna looked him over critically.

“You’d get votes if you grew a man bun.”

Zas recoiled as if struck.

“I would rather lose honorably.”

Paul nearly fell off the couch laughing.

Hailey covered her mouth.

Felix, from the other side of the room:

“Strong opening platform.”

Zas crossed his arms.

“I will not grow one.”

Joanna shrugged.

“Then you cap at city council.”

Zas shook his head.

“I am not a great speaker.”

Ruby immediately countered.

“Neither is Ron Ruggle.”

That got a loud reaction.

Paul clutched his chest theatrically.

“National slander.”

Ruby continued.

“He’s been RUWS President for years.”

Felix nodded.

“She has a point.”

Zas looked mildly offended on behalf of rhetoric itself.

“I do not seek glory,” Zas said.

“Nor the risk of being king.”

Paul waved that away.

“You’re thinking too high.”

“You don’t need to be king.”

“You don’t need to win votes.”

“You don’t need a palace.”

He gestured broadly.

“You just need to get involved.”

Zas frowned.

“That means blocking roads and inciting violence.”

Everyone spoke at once.

“No!”

Hailey laughed.

“Sometimes politics looks like that because it gets attention.”

“…but that’s not all politics.”

Hailey counted on her fingers.

“Volunteering.”

“Helping campaigns.”

“Community groups.”

“Tenant organizations.”

“School boards.”

“Charities.”

“Policy advocacy.”

“Writing representatives.”

“Neighborhood organizing.”

“Speaking at meetings.”

Paul added:

“Fundraising.”

Ruby added:

“Mutual aid.”

Joanna added:

“Annoying city councillors.”

Felix added:

“Very fun.”

Zas listened carefully.

“So not all warriors carry signs?”

“No,” said Ruby.

“Some carry spreadsheets.”

That impressed him more than it should have.

Paul leaned forward again.

“You don’t even need to join anything.”

“You can just push your views online.”

Zas looked deeply skeptical.

“Social media?”

He said the words like mold.

“I believed it was for vanity.”

He counted grimly.

“Cat videos.”

“People photographing meals.”

“Women pretending to be sexy.”

Then, after a pause:

“…and the two women who actually are sexy.”

He nodded toward Ruby and Joanna.

They accepted this with regal calm.

“Correct,” said Joanna.

Hailey was laughing too hard to speak.

Ruby recovered first.

“Lots of people use social media for real causes.”

“Labor rights.”

“Housing.”

“Charity drives.”

“Whistleblowing.”

“Political pressure.”

“Finding missing people.”

“Exposing corruption.”

Hailey added:

“Some actual change starts there now.”

Paul nodded.

“It’s a megaphone.”

Felix muttered:

“…and sometimes a sewer.”

“Both true,” Paul said.

Zas grew quieter.

“If I became political…”

He searched for the phrase.

“People may not like me.”

That one landed differently.

Because it was not vanity.

It was fear.

He had seen fame turn.

Seen crowds love and then mock.

Seen support vanish.

Hailey answered honestly.

“That can happen.”

No sugarcoating.

Ruby nodded.

“There are no guarantees.”

Paul added:

“Politics attracts criticism the way tacos attract me.”

Then Joanna leaned forward.

“…but listen to yourself.”

“You’ve stared down giant beasts trying to kill you.”

“You’ve walked into arenas where people wanted your blood.”

“You’ve acted while afraid.”

She pointed at him.

“That’s courage.”

“Politics is just another arena.”

Zas considered this.

“No claws?”

“Usually no.”

“No venom?”

“Depends on the comment section.”

Felix laughed loudly.

Zas sat back.

He had never imagined politics as service.

Only crowns.

Chaos.

Manipulation.

Crowds.

Yet here they described something broader.

Messier.

Smaller.

Reachable.

He looked at his hands.

“So I need not become king.”

“No,” said Paul.

“You can start by caring loudly.”

The suite fell into that rare silence where a new idea enters and waits.

Arel-Sin, who had absorbed perhaps one-third of the conversation, offered his summary:

“So… Dad should post online.”

Paul pointed proudly.

“He gets modern democracy.”

Zas sighed deeply.

“This world is exhausting.”

“No,” she said.

“It’s just different.”

She stepped closer, still half in athlete mode, half in late-night philosopher mode.

“…and it can be fulfilling… if you want it to be.”

That stayed with him.

Because it was not a rebuttal.

It was an invitation.

At last, reality reasserted itself.

The hour was late.

The food was gone.

The stories had run long.

Even Paul’s energy had become inefficient.

Hailey stood first.

“Alright. Out.”

Felix muted the movie fully and rose with a stretch.

Both women moved through the room giving warm goodbyes.

Real hugs.

Not celebrity gestures.

Not performative politeness.

They hugged Ruby and Joanna.

Paul got a dramatic one because he demanded it, though still lots of tenderness.

Arel-Sin accepted his like tribute.

Then came Zas.

Hailey hugged him firmly.

“You’re a good man.”

Felix added:

“Confusing, but good.”

Zas accepted both judgments.

Then Hailey took Zas’s hand, pressed something into it.

Her number.

“If you’re getting into politics,” she said, “I want to help.”

Zas looked down at it.

“You would aid my rise?”

“I’d at least stop you from sounding insane online.”

Felix nodded.

“Critical service.”

Paul wiped away fake tears.

“Coalitions forming in real time.”

Zas looked up thoughtfully.

“If I am now politically aligned with Buffalo…”

Everyone braced.

“…must I become a Beasts fan?”

Paul exploded instantly.

“Yes!”

Felix pointed both thumbs at herself.

“Correct answer.”

Hailey clapped once.

“We’ve got him.”

Ruby and Joanna reacted like betrayed royalty.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Ruby said.

Joanna was more direct.

“If you switch sides, we withhold sex.”

The room howled.

Felix, without missing a beat, raised a hand.

“We volunteer as replacements.”

Hailey laughed so hard she had to lean on the wall.

“I cannot believe I’m agreeing, but yes.”

Zas did not flinch.

He turned to his wives and simply answered:

“You would only deny yourselves me.”

Then added with perfect seriousness:

“Especially The Grace of Dragomir.”

Ruby and Joanna froze.

Then fumed.

Then, reluctantly, conceded.

“…annoyingly true,” Ruby muttered.

“Oh he’s good,” said Joanna.

Paul pointed triumphantly.

“He may actually be good at politics.”

What should have been a two-minute exit became another fifteen.

More hugs.

More jokes.

More promises to meet again.

Arel-Sin somehow located one final snack from the suite kitchen and emerged eating it like treasure.

Felix saluted him.

“You’ve got instincts.”

“I know.”

Finally the group stepped into the hotel hallway.

The suite door closed behind them.

For the first time all day, the world was quiet.

Arel-Sin looked up.

“So…”

Beat.

“Am I going to school tomorrow?”

Zas answered with rare fatherly mercy.

“No.”

Arel-Sin nearly wept with joy.

Then Zas continued:

“You must still finish your homework.”

The joy died instantly.

Paul laughed loud enough to echo down the corridor.

“Welcome to governance.”

Zasaramel’s House

Back at Zasaramel’s house, the world was smaller, softer, and much quieter than Dragon Yard had been.

The babies were asleep.

Their monitors glowed gently on the side table.

Watcher the dog was curled in the corner, snoring with full moral innocence.

On the couch sat Raven and Roxy, tucked beneath blankets, watching the 1960s Batman series on a streaming service.

The colors were bright.

The acting theatrical.

The stakes absurdly simple.

Exactly the kind of thing that feels comforting after babysitting infants.

Onscreen, Batman delivered stern wisdom while Robin reacted earnestly.

Roxy pointed at the television.

“I think we’d make a good duo.”

Raven looked over.

“Oh?”

“Yeah.”

Roxy sat up straighter.

“I’d be Robin.”

She pointed at Raven.

“You’d be Batman.”

Raven smiled.

“Interesting casting.”

Roxy nodded confidently.

“You’ve got the vibe.”

Raven let that sit for a second.

Then asked:

“Do you think vigilantism is like what we’re watching?”

Roxy thought seriously.

Longer than Raven expected.

Then answered:

“No.”

“No capes?”

“Sadly no.”

“No sound effects?”

“Also no.”

Roxy’s tone grew more grounded.

“I know it’s messy.”

“Real.”

“Dangerous.”

“Probably boring a lot of the time.”

“Paperwork too, somehow.”

Raven laughed quietly.

“Somehow, yes.”

…but inwardly Raven wondered if Roxy truly understood.

Most people imagine danger.

Few imagine tedium, compromise, guilt, and aftermath.

Then came keys at the door.

Watcher’s head shot up instantly.

He stood, stretched, and in his excitement released a triumphant fart.

No one commented because this was established family law.

Then he sprinted toward the entrance in a blur of claws and joy.

The family came through the door carrying fatigue, leftovers, and late-night energy.

Watcher greeted everyone individually as if they had returned from war.

“How were the babies?” Ruby asked immediately.

“Perfect,” Raven said.

“Suspiciously perfect,” added Roxy.

“They behaved,” Raven confirmed.

Joanna exhaled in relief.

Arel-Sin was already looking for a final snack.

Raven crossed her arms.

“So?”

Roxy leaned forward.

“We watched it on TV.”

“…but what was it like there?”

Arel-Sin answered first.

“Torture.”

Roxy turned slowly and gave him a death glare.

Because all day he had bragged about being in a luxury suite.

He noticed.

“Luxury torture.”

That did not help.

Zas removed his jacket and answered with more thought.

“It was intense.”

“Both teams displayed warrior spirit.”

Ruby and Joanna stared at him in disbelief.

Because this same man had spent most of the game openly complaining.

Joanna pointed accusingly.

“You hated being there.”

“At the time,” Zas corrected.

Ruby laughed.

“Revisionist history already.”

Zas continued.

“The batting cage humbled me.”

Ruby chuckled.

“You should have seen it.”

“…and meeting the players afterward changed my perspective.”

That got Raven’s full attention.

“You met the players?”

Roxy sat upright.

“All of them?”

“Some of them,” said Zas casually, as if discussing weather.

Raven looked offended on principle.

“You met Whitney McCarthy?”

“Yes.”

“…and Hailey?”

“Yes.”

“…and Felix?”

“Yes.”

Roxy threw a pillow at him.

“That is a big deal!”

Zas batted it away.

“It was merely conversation.”

Everyone objected at once.

Ruby and Joanna, sensing mischief, stepped in.

“Careful,” Ruby said.

“Hailey and Felix may have turned him into a Beasts fan.”

Raven and Roxy gasped with genuine scandal.

Roxy pointed dramatically.

“Traitor.”

Zas smiled faintly.

“No.”

Then after a pause:

“They simply gave me a new perspective on life and society.”

He looked around the room.

“That was worth more.”

The room quieted slightly.

Because they knew he meant it.

Raven shook her head.

“I have approximately one hundred questions.”

“…but it is late.”

“So I will be responsible for once.”

Paul applauded sarcastically.

Raven ignored him.

She and Roxy gathered their things.

Then Zas stopped them.

“I need your help.”

Both women turned.

“With what?”

Zas answered gravely:

“Social media.”

There was silence.

Then Roxy shrieked.

Raven laughed openly.

“You?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I may enter politics.”

That nearly dropped Roxy to the floor.

Raven stared.

Then smiled slowly.

“Oh.”

“We are absolutely helping.”

Roxy pointed at herself proudly.

“I’m making your profile picture.”

Zas looked mildly alarmed.

“I regret asking already.”